A Change of Pace

by Budd, Virginia

  Easter with Reg and Maureen had been every bit as bad as she thought it would be; the weather hadn’t helped, and she had spent most of the time — when she wasn’t cooking —vainly trying to escape from Reg. When the Felixstowe trip was first mooted, she’d pleaded incipient flu, but was pretty sure Reg suspected her of scrimshanking. She was proved right on this point when he tracked her down in the old stables, where she and Tib were hiding, for the sole purpose of telling her so. And if you asked him, her refusal to accompany them on the outing wasn’t because she felt ill, but because she planned to entertain a secret lover while they were out. (She should be so lucky!) ‘I’ve noticed a gleam in those green eyes of yours, Elizabeth, if no one else has! You can’t get much past old Reg S., you know. The All-Seeing Eye, that’s what the lads called me in the old days ... ’

  ‘Look, Dad, it’s gone half-past nine, if we don’t start soon we’ll be behind schedule.’

  ‘Schedules are made to be broken, son, always remember that. What would have happened at Waterloo if Old Hookey had insisted on keeping to his schedule, eh?’ No one answered; they weren’t meant to, Reg merely wished to make the point that he was in charge and the schedule was his to do what he liked with. You couldn’t have other ranks chipping in with tomfool suggestions, that would never do! All the same, the boy was right, they’d better be for the off. Pity about Elizabeth, though, he’d like to have had her sitting beside him. Those eyes, they fair gave him the jim-jams ... come to think of it, her boobs weren’t half bad either. Not to worry, there’d be other times.

  ‘Marching orders, everyone!’ Maureen cringed, Nell gritted her teeth and Bernie only just succeeded in preventing himself from jumping to attention. Only Bet looked cheerful as she rubbed a space on the wet window-pane and watched the Sparsworth Volvo, crammed to the gunwales with people and equipment, turn smartly round in the yard, and to the accompaniment of the Sparsworth signature tune (three short, sharp toots on the horn followed by a long one — V for Victory — get it?) sweep out of the gate and disappear from view round a bend in the lane.

  Blessed silence, and a whole day to do what she liked with.

  The kitchen was warm, inviting, with Tib snoring in his basket, the gentle hum of the fridge, rain gurgling in the guttering outside the window, everything spotless; Maureen had seen to that before she left. The windows were clean for the first time since they’d moved in. (Have you tried Go-Go, Betty, it’s ever so good, just adds that extra zip and sparkle), you could see your face in the sink, and there wasn’t a cobweb in sight.

  Bet poured herself a cup of coffee — another of Maureen’s tips: Always have the percolator on the go, dear, you never know when the men might fancy a cup and they can get on the snappy side if they’re kept waiting — and switched on Radio 2. ‘Once I had a secret love ... ’ The chocolate-cream voice of Doris Day filled the kitchen. Bet, smiling, stuck her feet up on a chair, lit a cigarette, reached for the Guardian.

  Halfway through the leader, she heard the sound of a car turning in at the gate. Oh God! She simply couldn’t bear it; they must have decided not to go after all. Bet shut her eyes and began to pray ...

  ‘Anyone at home?’ Simon’s face at the window. Tib was barking, her own mouth was dry, hands shaking. ‘How did you know I’d be here — the others have gone to Felixstowe —’

  ‘I know they have — the whole village knows, and good luck to them. My word, that coffee smells good, there isn’t a cup to spare, is there?’

  Pull yourself together, Brandon, you’re not a lovesick schoolgirl. Her hands were only trembling a little now, and she managed to pour out a coffee without Simon seeing. ‘And what brings you here, Mr Morris? If it’s to complain about Tib and that pheasant last week —’

  ‘Don’t be an ass. I’ve come to ask if you’d care to pay a visit to the Old Minster at South Elmham. I like to go there from time to time, it’s good for my soul — or what little soul I have left. We could take a picnic. I know it’s pouring, but we can always eat in the car, and anyway I met old Sid Garnham in the shop just now and he says it’s going to clear up.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to make sandwiches with,’ she said, ‘and I’m supposed to have flu ... What exactly is the Old Minster?’

  In the end they made Marmite sandwiches; Simon said they’d been his best thing for nursery tea and he hadn’t had any for years. It was his idea, too, to raid the Redford cellar for a really decent bottle of wine. ‘Alfonso keeps ours under lock and key, and besides, he’s in one of his moods. I’m sure your brother-in-law would be only too delighted, and we can always pay him back.’

  Then they were away, bowling through the soggy spring countryside. Bet with a map on her knees; happy, not thinking of anything; not talking either, just watching the tiny blue patches in the smoke-grey clouds get larger and larger, until suddenly the blue had taken over and everything steamed in the sudden warmth of the sun. The country became flatter, a Flemish landscape; pink-washed farmhouses riding like ships in a sea of green-brown fields; here and there a solitary oak, a windmill, the square, squat tower of a village church.

  ‘Not far now. Light me a cig, will you. See, Sid Garnham was right — he always is.’

  ‘You haven’t told me yet about the Old Minster and why it’s good for your soul.’ Simon puffed on his cigarette and screwed up his eyes in the sun. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of St Fusi?’ Bet shook her head. What a. lot she didn’t know.

  ‘Not surprising, I suppose. As saints go, he’s pretty obscure. St Fusi was the missionary priest sent from Ireland to convert East Anglia, his more famous rival being St Felix, who was sent from Rome. St Felix, after the usual vicissitudes common to that sort of work, became the first Bishop of East Anglia, with his cathedral sited somewhere near Felixstowe; exactly where isn’t known. The story goes that he was joined at some point by St Fusi, hot-foot from Ireland and bursting with enthusiasm for the cause. However, although they were united in their aim to convert the wild men of East Anglia to their own, Christian God, early Christian Ireland was a very different place from world-weary Rome, and it wasn’t long before the two saints fell out. As a result the bishopric was split, St Felix remaining at Felixstowe and St Fusi setting up a second, possibly rival, bishopric at South Elmham.

  ‘Of course, a lot of all this is speculation, but we do have one overwhelming piece of evidence as to the rivalry — the Old Minster at South Elmham. And whereas there’s no trace of St Felix’s church — no doubt a run-of-the-mill wattle-and-daub affair, fashionable at the time and dead easy to build —the ruins of St Fusi’s stone church stand to this day. We shall never know how or why he built it — and it certainly dates back to the eighth century; it was built, that’s all. A huge, Romanesque edifice; a sort of poor man’s St Sophia, if you like, plonked down in the middle of the Suffolk wilderness.

  ‘No one knows, either, how long the place was used as a church — if it ever was used as a church. We do know that by the eleventh century the bishopric had removed to North Elmham in Norfolk, where there are the remains of a cathedral, although that didn’t last long either and was replaced eventually by the cathedral at Norwich. Naturally, lots of legends grew up over the centuries about what the Old Minster was for. Built by a giant in a fit of madness, or as a penance; a fairy castle that somehow got left behind; Merlin’s summer palace — you name it. It’s only comparatively recently that anyone has taken an intelligent interest in the place, and it’s surprising how few people even in Suffolk know of its existence. The tradition goes that the farmhouse on whose land it stands is built on the site of the bishop’s palace, but there’s no hard evidence. There’s the remains of a chapel in the garden, but it’s of a much later date than the Minster.

  ‘And that’s all I can tell you, really, and you no doubt think that’s too much anyway. To answer your other question, Why is a visit to the Minster good for my soul? is a little more difficult. I suppose because it’s beautiful, exotic, unique, forgotten, mad, probably a white
elephant from the day it was built, and proves that thirteen hundred years ago there were people around every bit as daft as we are now. Oh, I don’t know — do you want any more?’

  ‘That’s enough, actually.’ Bet put out her hand, he took it without looking at her. ‘We’re almost there ... ’

  The last part of the journey was slow, a farm track full of potholes and puddles leading to a magnificent eighteenth-century, lime-washed farmhouse. Then, after gaining permission from the farmer to leave the car in his rick-yard, there was a muddy walk over the fields. Simon strode in front with the picnic basket and an ash wand cut from the hedge, Bet squelched along behind in her wellies, carrying the plastic bag with Pete’s precious bottle of wine in it. They passed the ruined chapel, then climbed over a stile into a bumpy, sloping field full of baaing sheep. Lucky she hadn’t brought Tib. Simon had said no when she suggested it. It wouldn’t do him any harm to stay at home for once, he said, he could take a well-earned rest and prepare himself for the return of the sergeant-major (Bet had told Simon about the sergeant-major). At the bottom of the field they turned left along a small, boggy stream, its banks churned to mud by the sheep. Had it been as wet as this in St Fusi’s time? Probably much wetter.

  ‘Come on, slowcoach, there it is.’ Simon pointed his wand — Merlin in an anorak? — towards what looked like a small wood ahead of them to the right. The trees already held a fuzz of green, one or two rather nondescript rooks flapped about, primroses shone in the bank below the trees. Just an ordinary wood, and just another of those flat, archaeological sites that have to be explained to one by an archaeologist, and which even then doesn’t make sense. What had she expected, Canterbury cathedral? Simon, ahead of her, had already climbed the bank into the wood and disappeared. About to follow him, maddeningly, one of her boots got stuck in the mud, forcing her to put the bag of wine down on a nearby tussock and then hop about on one leg like an idiot in a frantic attempt to get the boot back on again. After a great deal of swearing and wondering why the hell Simon wasn’t there to help, she succeeded at last, and picking up the bag of wine, prepared to follow him over the bank.

  It was only then she realised that the wood wasn’t a wood at all; what she’d thought to be the density of trees was in reality a huge, ruined building, the trees merely an outer ring around the grass clearing on which it stood. She clambered over the bank in a sudden rush, then just stood and looked, head back, clutching her plastic bag to her chest, mouth half-open in wonder.

  How had they done it? Was it for the glory of their new-found God, or was it simply megalomania? The place looked as outlandish as a unicorn in that quiet English landscape, only much, much larger. Grey stone walls, in places still as high as the nave of a cathedral, stretched up towards the sun, arched Romanesque windows gaped blindly through matted ivy; scattered among the primroses, great blocks of stone, a Herculean pillar. There was the sudden clap and shudder of wings as a flock of pigeons, disturbed, burst from a high, creeper-covered arch and took flight towards the open sunlit fields. And Bet went on standing there. She wanted to cry; not for sadness, but not for happiness either. Simply at the sheer, unexpected wonder of the place. For a moment she even forgot Simon. Only for a moment, however. Then he was there beside her, excited, triumphant, laughing at her wonder ... wanting her.

  And she stood there, nodding, exclaiming, feeling the wind on her face, the beat of her heart; trying to pull herself together, take control of the situation.

  Then, of course, it happened. It was inevitable, really, when one came to think of it. In a futile attempt to put a few more feet between herself and temptation, she took a step backwards, tripped over a tussock of grass and slithered ungracefully to the ground. Wiping the mud from her nose and feeling an absolute idiot, but otherwise OK, she looked up to find Simon kneeling beside her. ‘Darling Bet, you are so utterly, absolutely, splendid, do you think I could kiss you? I’m sure the rooks won’t mind, and if you’re worrying about the ghost of St Fusi, there’s not the slighest cause for alarm, those early saints were a broad-minded lot.’

  Oh God! Why did he have to make her giggle? Odd how she’d never connected sex with laughter before. She became aware she was still clutching the bag of wine. ‘But Simon, what shall I do with this?’

  ‘Put it down on the grass, my love, first things first. Don’t worry, we’ll come to the wine later. Meanwhile ... ’

  Much later — it could have been a minute, an hour or even a century — Bet, lying on her back on the warm, damp grass, heard someone cry out. Such a strange, triumphant, happy, mournful cry. Then she felt the tears on her face, Simon’s warm wetness between her legs, his limp body on her own, and knew that it was her voice that had cried out. Somewhere quite close she could hear a blackbird singing, far away the drone of a tractor. She wanted to sleep; despite the dampness, it was deliciously warm in the bed Simon had made for them in the angle of the Old Minster walls. But she mustn’t sleep, there wasn’t time to sleep, normality must somehow be restored. But how could normality be restored when one was lying on one’s back in a fifteen-hundred-year-old church with a comparative stranger on top of one, and when one had experienced something so ... so ...

  Simon stirred, rolled off her and sat up, shaking himself like a dog coming out of water. Absurdly, with the memory of their love-making still everywhere around her — it would be gone soon, she knew, like a dream one tries to retain after waking but never can — Bet found herself trying to think of something to say. In the end, all she could come up with was that she wondered what she’d done with her sweater. Simon sat up, found his and pulled it over his head. ‘You’re not angry with me, are you?’ The words came muffled from inside the sweater.

  ‘Of course not, why ever should I be?’ she said, surprised that he should ask — this was returning to normality with a vengeance.

  ‘That’s all right, then. I only wondered. You see, sometimes — ’

  ‘Sometimes what?’ Jealousy, unbidden, prickled somewhere deep down in her intestines.

  ‘Sometimes after making love people get angry. Sad too — have you never heard of post-coital blues? There’s a school of thought that says, the better the sex, the sadder or angrier the participants become when it’s over. I suppose the reasoning behind it is that just to nip out and clean the car, or pop on your rubber gloves and do the washing-up, is rather too much of a jolt to the system after all that sublime exercise, so you burst into storms of tears or have a blazing row instead.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, wondering about herself and Miles. She had to admit that what rows they had were usually after sex, at least in their early days. ‘If that’s the case, what about you?’

  ‘Me?’ There was a pause while he found his packet of cigarettes somewhere under her left leg. ‘Me, I simply try to please. And if you go on looking at me like that, Mrs Brandon, we’ll never get any lunch, which would be a shame after all the trouble we took over those Marmite sandwiches.’

  After lunch in a patch of sunlight at the edge of the clearing, languorous with wine, they made love again, but this time it was a gentle, sleepy thing; no angst, no urgency, no crying out. And afterwards, with Simon asleep and Bet beside him with her head on his shoulder, she felt she never wanted to think about anything again; just to exist, to be aware of the tingling of her re-awakened body, the sun on her face, was enough. Of course, such a state of things had to come to an end, she knew that, and all too soon it did. The sun, perversely, went behind a cloud, Simon woke up and looked at his watch, and it was time for them to go.

  They drove home sleepily through the late afternoon sunshine, chatting desultorily of this and that, and it seemed to Bet that although what had happened at the Old Minster wasn’t mentioned between them, it didn’t matter, for on the whole they were at peace with each other. She wasn’t absolutely sure of this, had to admit to a small, niggling doubt, but on the whole she thought they were. He did say at one point, giving her a quick sideways glance, ‘That was your first time, was
n’t it? I mean, you never had a lover while —’

  ‘As it happens, no,’ she said, feeling rather ashamed that she hadn’t, ‘there never seemed to be the time.’ This made him laugh, although she hadn’t intended it to, but since his laughter somehow managed to dispel the tiny spiral of tension that had unaccountably risen between them, she was glad it did. He leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head. ‘You ain’t ‘alf a caution, Mrs Brandon, as our old nanny used to say. Who needs time, for God’s sake.’

  Back at Hopton, it was raining, and by the look of it had been raining all day. In the yard, horrendously, was the Sparsworth Volvo; they must have come home early because of the weather. ‘Oh my God, Simon, what am I going to do now? They shouldn’t be home for hours yet.’

  ‘There’s no need to panic, for a start. Why shouldn’t they be back, poor things, if it’s been raining like this at Felixstowe I don’t blame them. I —’

  ‘There you are, you naughty minx! Flu, my arse — if you’ll pardon the expression. Why don’t you bring the boyfriend in for a cuppa? I’ll pop the kettle on, it won’t take a jiffy.’ Reg, grinning like a horse-collar, was waving a tea-towel out of the kitchen window. Rain was pouring down, the dog was barking ...

  ‘Simon, please come in with me, you must — I simply can’t face them all on my own.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a baby, of course you can.’ Simon was laughing so much he could barely speak, only splutter and hold on to the steering-wheel. At any other time she would have thought it funny too. ‘Look, I’d love to join the sar’-major for a brew-up, but you see I promised old Cyn I’d be back by six.’