A Talent For Destruction (19 page)

If only she had tried to comfort Robin herself that afternoon; but she hadn't enough passion in her make-up, or compassion either. And then, the build-up of tension between them had been so great that it could be dispelled only by catharsis.

If only she had telephoned the doctor; but that would have added to her husband's rage. He would never have forgiven her if she had let the doctor see him in a state of emotional and mental turmoil.

She peered nervously into the kitchen. Robin was sitting with one elbow on the table, his head propped by his hand, occasionally giving a small sob. His other arm was extended limply across the table. Janey, sitting beside him, was holding his hand consolingly in hers. She made no attempt to move when Gillian reappeared, and it did not occur to the older woman that there was anything other than helpfulness and friendship in the posture. They whispered to each other, agreeing that as Robin was calmer it would be a good idea if Gillian went out for a breath of fresh air while Janey continued to sit with him.

If only …

Gillian crossed St Botolph Street and walked under the dark summer canopy of the copper beech trees, into the sunlit quiet of Parson's Close. She was deeply shocked and completely bewildered by her husband's behaviour. It didn't occur to her until later that his outburst of hatred was both an expression of his struggle to suppress his feelings for Janey, and an attempt to justify those feelings. All she could think of at the time was the injustice of his allegations against her, and her growing fear for his sanity. She was almost afraid to go back to the house.

And yet she must go back, if only to make substitution arrangements for the following day's services. Appearances must be kept up; the parish routine must be maintained, even though Robin was ill. She concentrated on the details she would have to attend to, feeling better for the mental activity. As for Robin – thank God Janey was there to keep an eye on him.

But Robin, despite his turmoil, had also thought of the church. Detaching himself from Janey's hand, he had stumbled out of the Rectory and sought refuge in St Botolph's. For once, it was empty. The verger would be back at dusk to lock up, but for the next hour Robin had the shadow-filled grandeur of the church to himself.

He sank to his knees in his stall behind the lectern and put his head in his hands. Prayer was impossible; he had lost communication with God months, if not years, ago. But here, in a place where prayer had been valid for five centuries, he might at least be able to dispel some of the black thoughts that seethed in his mind.

He sensed rather than saw Janey enter the church. The clunk of the iron latch as the door was closed, and the grating sound as the massive key was turned in the lock, failed to disturb him, but all his senses were so attuned to her that he knew she was there, walking quietly down the aisle towards him. He knew exactly how she looked, her face gravely intent, her hair a living glory against the pillars of carved stone.

She passed him, walking on up the chancel. He opened his fingers and looked through them. She rolled back the carpet immediately below the altar steps, and stood gazing down at the Bedingfield brass. Without thought or volition he rose from his knees and walked up the chancel towards her.

Neither of them spoke. Robin was aware of nothing but Janey as they stood stiffly side by side, in much the same attitude as the knight and his lady at their feet. It seemed not only natural but inevitable that as they stood there Janey's hand should move into his.

He felt their flesh jolt together, as though welded by an electric current. Slowly, he turned his head towards her. His ears were filled with the thunder of his blood, and the world had contracted to the size and shape of her lips. His own were dry. He heard himself croak a faint, token protest: ‘Not here –'

But Janey, guiding him towards the rolled-up carpet, said, ‘Where better? Sir John and Isabella will understand.'

What affected Gillian most, when Robin told her that he loved Janey, that he had made love to her, and that he intended to go on doing so as long as she remained in England, was the blow to her self-esteem. She didn't blame Robin for what had happened, or Janey, but she blamed herself for letting it happen.

Superficially, life at the Rectory and in the parish went on much as usual for the next eight days. Robin insisted that he wasn't ill. He refused to see the doctor, and said that he intended to go on working. Gillian tried at first to reason with him, to point out that he couldn't preach and lead prayers, let alone administer the sacraments, at the same time as he was committing adultery; but she was unable to get through to him. Robin moved through each day's work like a zombie. His congregation, thinking how ill he looked, attributed his mistakes and strange pauses in church to physical pain, and did what they could to lighten his burdens.

At home, Robin and Gillian spoke little to each other. He moved out of their bedroom into the spare room lately occupied by Janey, who in Athol Garrity's absence had taken over his tent. Gillian was aware of Robin's nocturnal excursions only if she heard the floorboards creak or his door open and close. Her instinct was to walk out on him, at least temporarily, but as the conscientious wife of a parson her priorities were clear to her: she covered for him, kept him going, held the affairs of the parish together. Sometimes, exhausted, she would say to him, ‘Robin, we can't go on like this.' But he would only shrug and mutter that it wouldn't be for long.

He would have found it easier if she had shouted at him. He knew that he was behaving insupportably, and he longed to have an opportunity to shout back at her. He felt that, in snatching a few days'happiness with Janey, he was for the first time in his life doing what he himself wanted to do, instead of what others expected of him. The pressures of clerical life, and the public's insistence on a blameless clerical lifestyle, had become more than he could sustain.
I'm not just a parson
, he wanted to shout at his wife and the world,
I'm a person. What about what I want, for a change?

But his wife gave him no excuse to shout at her, and he could never shout at the world because his sense of guilt was too strong. Not that he felt sinful; he was too far out of touch with God for that. His guilt came from the knowledge that if his conduct were made public he would lose his job, his home, and possibly his wife. And he wanted desperately to keep all three.

The hostility that he had expected from Gillian came instead from her father. The Aingers tried to conceal what was happening from Henry Bowers, but the old man was no fool. He had always despised his son-in-law, and now he had cause to hate him.

‘Why you dirty bastard,' he roared, when full realization came to him. He advanced on Robin, his eyebrows ferocious, his great gnarled hands shaking with fury. ‘I'll strangle you with my bare hands, I'll –'

Robin backed rapidly out of the room, and Gillian pulled her father away. ‘Stop it, Dad! I won't have you making threats.' The old man stood panting and swearing. ‘Who does he bloody think he is, to treat my daughter like this? A parson? I'll give him bloody parson –'

‘No you won't,' said Gillian wearily. ‘Listen to me, Dad. Sit down and listen. I need your help.'

He had begun to chunter about Janey. ‘That little gal, eh? And I treated her like me own grand-daughter … and all the time she's nothing but a tart!' He thumped his fist on the arm of his chair. ‘Bloody Aussies – nothing but trouble. By God, if ever she comes back to this house I'll –'

Gillian seized his shoulders and shook him. ‘Stop it, do you hear? Robin's not himself, he's ill. He'll get over it as soon as Janey goes, but we
must
keep this to ourselves. You mustn't breathe a word of what has happened to anyone, or Robin will be ruined. And if that happens, it won't just be Robin who suffers, it'll be me as well. Do you understand? So promise me this: you won't talk about us in the town, ever, and you won't say or do anything to hurt Robin – or Janey either, come to that. Say that you promise, Dad?'

The old man shuffled and sulked, but he loved his daughter too much to refuse her anything.

Janey Rolph was bored.

In four days'time, on Tuesday, 31 July, she would be flying to the United States. She had her visa and her airline ticket. England held no further interest for her. She had seen what she wanted to see, had disrupted a stable relationship between two post-graduate students in Yarchester, and completed her thesis demolishing the literary reputation of three contemporary novelists. Her major achievement had been to induce the Rector of Breckham Market to make love to her in his own church, but for once her timing had gone awry. The passionate kiss and its consummation should have been postponed until the eve of her departure. Anything after it was bound to be an anti-climax.

Robin now spent most of his time with her agonizing tediously, over drinks and meals in country pubs, about what he was doing to Gillian. He was still fervent in his lovemaking, but Janey was not particularly interested in sex and she found that the novelty of having it in church soon wore off. The vestry was uncomfortable. So was Athol Garrity's tent. She decided that she would prefer to spend her last weekend in England in comfort, and to give Gillian – who had showed such bovine confidence in the stability of her marriage – the experience of lying in bed alone and listening to her enjoyment.

She announced her decision to Robin late in the evening of Friday, 27 July, reducing him to impotence by the enormity of her demand. He returned home earlier than usual. Gillian's light was still on, and he knocked on the door of their bedroom before venturing in and delivering Janey's message. It would only be for three days, he pleaded … no, of course he wouldn't share the spare room with Janey, he'd put up a camp-bed in one of the empty bedrooms … yes, of course he saw Gillian's point of view. ‘Or would you rather go away for the weekend?' he finished desperately. (‘And if she doesn't like it, she needn't stay,' Janey had told him.)

Gillian stared at him, her eyes hot with misery. ‘Is that what you want me to do?'

‘No. Yes, if you like. I don't know.' He put his head in his hands, exhausted by worry and guilt and emotion. He had thought that Janey was fragile, in need of his help and protection, but tonight he had seen a new side of her nature, a strength that drained him completely. ‘She – she's making threats.'

He explained, haltingly, what Janey had done. They had gone out for the evening in her red Datsun and on the way, having earlier telephoned him at work to arrange it, she had picked up Michael Dade. During the course of the evening she had made amorous advances to the lovesick church organist, encouraging him to think that she would be willing to marry him. Robin had seethed with silent jealousy. But after she had packed Michael off home, Janey had explained that marriage to him would simply be a means of staying in Breckham Market, so as to be near Robin.

‘And I couldn't bear it,' he told his wife. He sat on the edge of her bed, sweating with fear. His stomach was churning, as it always did when he was afraid, and his breath was foul. ‘I couldn't have her living in Breckham with someone else, gazing at me with those great eyes, tormenting me … I begged her not to marry him, and she said she wouldn't if we'd take her back into the house.'

‘Of course she wouldn't marry Michael,' said Gillian. ‘What a cruel thing to let him think!'

‘But she might!' He shivered. ‘You don't know her – she might do anything. And I can't take the risk. I daren't. Just let her stay in the house for this weekend, to keep her quiet,
please
.'

But Gillian had reached her sticking-point. She had been humiliated enough.

‘No,' she said slowly, ‘I'm damned if I will.'

Her sense of humiliation had prevented Gillian from telephoning Alec Reynolds before, but she did so next morning, apologizing for having quarrelled with him over his assessment of her husband's character.

Reynolds took no pleasure from the fact that he had been right about Robin Ainger. He liked Gillian too much for that. It was a Saturday, and he would have driven straight to Breckham Market to give her what support he could – Ainger was in no position to raise any objection now – but he was about to set off for London and a weekend with his woman friend.

He delayed long enough to listen carefully to Gillian. She asked his advice, and he gave it. Never mind about the parish for a moment, he told her; think of yourself. Until recently you were not at all happy with your husband, and now he's broken the trust you put in him. Do you still want to remain his wife?

For a few moments Gillian said nothing. Then she answered in a strangled voice, ‘I suppose I'm a fool, but yes, I do. I still love the wretched man, you see. Whatever he does, I'll stay loyal to him.'

‘All right, then, my dear,' said Reynolds, half envious of him, half exasperated with her. ‘If that's what you want, then you must stay put in your own home. Don't let that girl drive you out, or give way to her blackmail. And stay calm, because your husband's obviously got himself into a mess, and he's going to need all your strength and sanity to help him out of it. Good luck, Gillian. I'll call and see you tomorrow evening on my way back from London.'

On the last Saturday in July, St Botolph's church was busy with weddings. Gillian steered her husband through the long day. When he had heard the third couple make their vows, and had sent them off with his blessing, he returned to the Rectory to change into casual clothes. Then he set off in the evening sunlight to meet Janey.

Gillian watched him leave, hoping that he would do as she had suggested and find a hotel where the girl could spend the weekend. She knew that he had taken his toothbrush and razor with him, and she assumed that she would not see him again before early service the next day. But Robin was careful never to take Janey out in his own car, which was well known in Breckham Market. They always used the Datsun. Janey insisted on driving, and so she controlled the length of their journeys, and their destination.