A Talent For Destruction (18 page)

The only person who was capable of making Janey uneasy was Athol Garrity. She couldn't believe that anyone with the power which his knowledge of her background gave him, would be uninterested in using it.

The Aingers'invitation to move into the Rectory had provided her with the excuse she needed to shake him off without running the risk of offending him. She had lied to him about where she was going, and she was disturbed and angry when, one afternoon early in June, she found him in St Botolph Street beside her car. He was sitting on the ground with his back to the palings that fenced Parson's Close, his big hands, resting on his bony knees, cradling a beer-can. On his left hand he wore a conspicuous silver knuckle-duster ring that he had acquired while he was backpacking round the eastern Mediterranean.

‘What the hell are you doing here?' demanded Janey.

‘Just came to look you up.' He grinned at her with wry admiration, showing a mouthful of excellent teeth in his long jaw. ‘Got the right address from the university registry. You always were a soddin' liar, Janey Rolph.'

She tried to persuade him to go away, but a man he had met in a nearby pub had told him that there was money to be made by brass-rubbing. Garrity had immediately gone prospecting in the church, where he had met the Rector and acquired the offer of a pitch for his tent, and an invitation to supper at the Rectory.

Janey was quietly furious. But then she remembered that Gillian Ainger had already had beer spilled over her by Athol; with luck, Gillian would soon discourage him. And if not, Janey reflected, she would have to find some other way of getting rid of him.

The Aingers dated the start of their troubles from Athol Garrity's arrival in Breckham Market. Everything had been fine, they told each other, until Athol appeared.

Janey had secured such a hold upon their affections that they ignored the fact that their rediscovered marital happiness began to deteriorate almost as soon as she moved in with them. The ease and relaxation that they experienced at first in her company had been replaced by a new tension. It was though she had ushered them on to a pleasantly slow-moving conveyor belt that had almost immediately speeded up and was now whizzing them, helpless, through their own lives.

The strain and bewilderment showed on both their faces. They tried to carry on as usual with their duties in the church and the community, but Gillian was almost invariably late for her appointments and Robin lost his concentration. Neither of them could any longer be relied on to remember the messages they were given, or the things they promised to do; except where Janey was involved. Unable – or unwilling – to identify her as the source of their turmoil, they focused their resentment on Athol Garrity.

Robin felt, angrily, that Athol had conned him. Their initial conversation in the church had given him the impression that the Australian was genuinely interested in church brasses. And when he learned that Garrity had come to Breckham to seek out Janey because he was one of her childhood friends, he had welcomed him in the hope of pleasing her.

His gut reaction, when he saw them together, took him completely by surprise. Janey's indifference to her fellow-countryman was clear, but Garrity's familiarity with her, and the way his eyes followed her about, made Robin's stomach muscles tighten sickeningly. He longed to get rid of him, but he was unable to say so either to Gillian or to Janey because that might advertise his jealousy.

Old Henry Bowers also wanted to see the back of the man. Garrity copied Janey in calling him Grandad, but without a by-your-leave; and he wasn't in the least interested in Gallipoli. Besides, Henry could see that his daughter disliked Garrity, and he hated to see her upset. For the first time in his life, the old man's anecdotal references to bloody Aussies carried an undertone of malice.

As for Gillian, she found it difficult to revise her initial opinion of Garrity, despite the fact that he arrived at the Rectory sober and made a painstaking, if imperfect, attempt to weed the obscenities out of his vocabulary. Janey encouraged her in her dislike, and Gillian made it clear to her friend that she had no intention of inviting him a second time.

But that was before she saw the look that her husband gave the man.

The shock of it, of seeing the narrow glitter of jealousy in Robin's eyes when Garrity put a large, silver-ringed hand casually on Janey's waist, left Gillian strangely light-headed. She couldn't believe what she had seen because she didn't want to believe it. Other married men might well become infatuated with a girl as attractive as Janey, but surely not Robin? As she had cause to know, he put a strictly literal interpretation on their marriage vows.

But whatever was going on in Robin's head, Gillian was unwilling to blame Janey. The girl had always treated him as an older brother, someone she admired and respected. She had never tried, as hapless women parishioners sometimes did, to contrive opportunities to be alone with him.

Even so, Gillian did some rapid thinking. If Robin really was hankering after Janey, the most sensible and civilized way to deal with the situation would be to encourage more unattached men of the girl's own age to come to the Rectory. With luck, she might fall for one of them; and if she didn't, their youthful presence should help Robin to put his feelings in perspective during the few remaining weeks of Janey's visit.

Meanwhile, Athol Garrity was better than no one. Gillian invited him to come again. She also invited Michael Dade, the deputy organist, two young teachers, and Martin Tait, the police detective sergeant who had recently investigated the theft of some church silver.

‘What are you trying to do?' Janey protested, laughing. ‘Marry me off, or something?'

‘Why not?' said Gillian, trying to extend the laughter. ‘You've always said that you don't like Australian men, so it's high time you met some unattached English ones.'

Janey became thoughtful. ‘You know, if I were to marry an Englishman, I could stay over here at the end of July instead of having to leave the country.' She smiled at Gillian, her voice teasing, her eyes as always shrewdly calculating the effect of her words. ‘How would it be if I settled permanently in Breckham Market?'

‘Lovely!' said Gillian, without daring to wonder why the prospect made her heart founder.

But Janey had no intention of settling in the town, and the young men were a nuisance. She ignored Michael Dade and Martin Tait and the teachers, and she got rid of Athol Garrity by the simple expedient of encouraging him to make a rubbing of the Bedingfield brass in St Botolph's. She advised him on the purchase of the equipment, and she set it out for him in the chancel, using the great Bible and piles of prayer books to hold down the paper. To refresh him during his work, she put a few cans of beer on the altar; to keep him entertained, she provided her transistor radio. Just before she slipped out through the vestry door, she turned up the radio volume to its fullest extent. Then she left him to face the verger's anguish and the Rector's wrath.

As she hoped, Robin forbade Athol to enter either the church or the Rectory again. Janey was to see no more of her fellow-countryman for three weeks, until 29 July. She guessed that he had gone to London, and she took note of the fact that he had left his tent pitched in Parson's Close. It was small, but it would be adequate for her purpose.

Alec Reynolds often thought of Gillian during the course of the summer, and wondered how things were between her and her husband. One Saturday afternoon in mid-July he drove over to Breckham Market and sat in his car in St Botolph Street, in the hope of seeing her. His image of her had been that of a younger version of his late wife, but in good health. The thinner, anxiety-ridden appearance of the woman who eventually hurried out of the Rectory gate carrying a shopping-basket, shocked him.

They exchanged face-saving untruths: Gillian was fine; Reynolds had come to Breckham primarily on business. He invited her to have tea with him in a café, but she refused. She made the light excuse that it might give rise to gossip in the town, but what really worried her was that Robin was in his study pretending to write tomorrow's sermon, and Janey was in her room finishing her thesis. She was reluctant to leave the two of them alone in the house for longer than she had to.

The strain of it all, of trying to continue with her work in the parish while her own emotions were in a state of turmoil, was wearing Gillian down. Her hands often shook, and she could hear her voice growing shrill. The only thing that kept her going was the thought that after the end of July her life would return to normal.

Meanwhile, Alec Reynolds was a welcome link with normality, and she accepted a lift as far as the shoppers'car park.

‘How are things?' he asked as he drove. ‘Truthfully?'

She closed her eyes. She had never been a woman who cried easily – parsons' wives are not expected to be emotional, and Gillian wasn't – but she was so tense that the unexpected gentleness of his words brought tears prickling up behind her eyelids. She held them back, but told him how abominable Athol Garrity had been; and added that it was a strain to have an unattached girl as a long-term guest, however pleasant she was and however much she understood the importance of keeping a low profile to minimize parish gossip.

‘It isn't gossip that's the problem, though, is it?' said Reynolds. He had seen Janey Rolph in the pub in Yarchester, he knew how very attractive she was, and he could guess why Gillian was distressed. He braked vigorously to a stop in the car park. ‘Tell the girl to pack her bags and go.'

‘But it isn't her fault that Robin's infatuated by her. Besides, he won't do anything about it. He's a priest. He's convinced of the sanctity of marriage.'

Reynolds snorted. He took off his glasses and polished them with a cloth that he kept with a spare pair of glasses in a case under the dash.

‘Don't be ingenuous, Gillian. Priest, doctor, lawyer – what does his profession matter? He's a man.'

She rounded on him angrily. ‘And are all men by definition lechers? That's a cynical suggestion of the kind I might expect from some of our parishioners, but not from you, Alec. I'd have thought you might acknowledge the finer feelings. There are such things as trust and fidelity, you know.'

Reynolds, who had been unswervingly faithful to his wife, was hurt and annoyed. ‘Yes, I do know. But your husband is a man who is ruled by his emotions. Didn't he suspect you of having an affair with me?'

‘All the more reason why I shouldn't misinterpret his friendship with Janey,' insisted Gillian. ‘Don't you see, that's exactly what the gossips would do? It's what I hate so much about parish life, and I won't be a party to it. All right, I'm worried about Robin's infatuation, but I know it's no more than that. I
trust
him.'

She was sorry to quarrel with Alec Reynolds, but having reasserted her faith in her husband she returned home in due course with a full shopping-basket and a lighter heart. When Robin came to look for her in the kitchen, she greeted him almost gaily, offering him tea.

She was answered by a breathy silence. He stood in the doorway staring over her head. His eyeballs were as dark as the whites of eggs that have been hard-boiled but not plunged immediately into cold water, and his face was ugly.

‘I don't want any tea,' he said in a slow, strangled voice. ‘I don't think I want anything from you ever again. You've lied to me and you've cheated me. You let me think that you'd given up seeing that man Reynolds, but you've obviously kept in touch with him all the time.'

‘But I –'

‘Don't try to deny it. I saw you, getting into his car and driving off. Where have you been? What have you been doing?'

She tried to explain, but Robin insisted that she was deceiving him. When she told him that all she was concerned about – all she had talked about with Reynolds – was their relationship as husband and wife, Robin's eyes glittered with rage.

‘How dare you?' His voice dropped into a register so low that she had never heard it from him before. ‘How
dare
you talk to anyone about me, as though I were a piece of public property? I'm not public property, I'm a person, I'm a private person, and I have a right to my own private life –'

‘But I didn't –'

He struck his fist on the kitchen table. ‘Don't
lie
to me! Don't lie to me any more, you've done enough lying, you've done enough –'

He began to cry. Sobs of rage and frustration came wrenching up out of his chest as he sank into a chair and began to beat his hand against the kitchen table. Aghast, Gillian went to him and nervously touched his shoulder. ‘Robin – Robin dear –'

He flung her off. His teeth were grinding together. ‘Get away! Get away from me! I
hate
you!'

She backed, terrified. He was ill, he was out of his mind, she must telephone the doctor –

And then she saw that Janey was standing in the doorway, watching.

‘He's ill – ill –' Gillian stammered. ‘I'll just go –'

The girl understood. ‘You go and get the doctor. I'll keep an eye on him,' she said.

Gillian ran from the kitchen. Robin had stopped beating the table and was now sitting sprawled across it, his head on his arms, his shoulders heaving.

Janey reached out a hand and stroked his wavy hair. ‘It'll be all right, Rob,' she murmured. ‘Don't worry, everything'll be all right.'

He lifted his head, turned to her, put his arms round her and began to shiver and cry quietly on her breast.

Months afterwards, Gillian decided that she herself had been responsible for starting the affair between her husband and Janey, in the sense that she was the one who had invited the girl into their home. She had to learn to live with the fact that all the subsequent happenings – passion and hatred, tragedy and death, fear and lying, waste and mourning – stemmed from her own obstinate determination to go against her husband's wishes and look for friends outside the parish. As the repercussions spread, she found herself thinking again and again, sometimes in panic, sometimes in lamentation, ‘If only …'