Such Men Are Dangerous (26 page)

“You’re dreaming.”

“No. I know I said it and that you didn’t like it. You were cross.”

“Nonsense. When have you ever seen me cross?”

“I still think you’d make a good one.”

“What, because Colonel Blimp said to me he liked the service I gave? And even
he
might have thought it preferable a vicar should believe.”

She stared at him.

“Ginny, what’s the matter?”

“But you do believe!”

“I mean, wholeheartedly.”

She continued to gaze at him. “Darling, I think I ought to warn you. You might be about to bring on the baby.”

“No, I mightn’t. When did
you
last set foot inside a church?”

“But that’s irrelevant.”

“Why is it? You’re as indeterminate as I am.”

“Yet you always gave me the impression…I always had the distinct impression…Why, I remember how you took my period pain away…and your Aunt Madge’s migraine. And I remember…” She paused.

“Oh, okay. I admit. Intermittently I may try to convince myself, and anybody else around, that things aren’t all haphazard. But what belief I have is really so feeble that it strikes me as shameful and debasing even to call it that. What do I ever do about it? Tell me.”

“What do you have to do about it? You lead a good life. You try to help people. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. Anyone with a true conviction wouldn’t be content to coast along like me.”

She smiled. “Of course! I should have understood. With you, it’s all or nothing. Always. You can’t exist in the centre. You thrive upon extremes.”

“Let’s leave this boring subject.”

“All right. But first let me say that
I
believe. I couldn’t bear to feel my life had been quite pointless.”

“Oh, my love! You’d never have to. Pointless? Why, if there’d been poison in your coffee and you were struck down right this very instant…”

“Yes?”

“Do you think they’d overlook the bill?”

She gave him a look of strained indulgence.

“I’m sorry. No, what I was going to say was that even if you were struck down right this very instant you’d still have left the world a fine example.”

“Of what?”

“Of how to influence your man.”

“Yes. Exactly what I wanted! And anyway, what would he do, my man?”

“Commit suicide.”

“Apart from that?”

“Well, I don’t know. Something wonderful.”

“All right, I’d haunt you every minute, be with you night and day, just to make sure you did. I wouldn’t leave you for a second. I’d clank my chains at you and demand some magnificent memorial, some golden piece of evidence. To demonstrate that, in the end, my life
hadn’t
been pointless.”

“What a dopy girl you are! And how strenuous you make it sound.”

“For myself as much as you, please note!”

“You know what? I’m not certain that in the long run it wouldn’t be easier if I simply paid the bill.”

“Oh, Simeon! Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

36

On the Tuesday morning it was raining. Mrs Madison, after a night in which she’d hardly slept, drove Simon to the church.

“Darling,” she’d said at breakfast, “I wish I wasn’t such a coward. But you know me: if I walk to the end of the road I feel I’ve been on a good hike. After the first half-hour you’d all have to take turns to carry me.” She’d produced a piece of paper from her pocket. On one side it said, ‘Infirm’ and, further down, ‘Remarkably infirm’. On the other side: ‘And desperately ashamed’. He saw the tears begin to glaze her eyes and wordlessly took her hand. He had known she wouldn’t come.

She went and fetched more sugar, glad of the pretext this gave for turning her back a moment.

“But, no, you shouldn’t treat me gently. I’m not a special case, you know, because I happen to be your mother. I
am
all those ghastly things you said.”

“What ghastly things?”

“Apathetic, lazy, selfish, parasitic. How dare I call myself a Christian?” Having filled the sugar bowl she moved to the refrigerator and opened it to show several large packets wrapped in greaseproof paper. “However, I do make lovely sandwiches.”

He smiled. “Blessed are the sandwich-makers. For their children shall be filled. But I hope I’m not being especially gentle with you, even though of course you
are
a special case. Because I don’t want to be
un
gentle with anyone.”

She was pouring their coffee. “This isn’t an excuse,” she said, “because I know I’m all the other things, but—
how dare I call myself a Christian
? Quite honestly, I never have. Not in my heart of hearts. Naturally, when your son becomes a vicar, you have a certain front to keep up. You can’t go round telling people, ‘Oh, gracious, you didn’t ever imagine that he caught it from
me
?’”

“I hope you’re not expecting this to be a revelation.”

“No. But I’ve never actually mentioned it. I thought it might seem like letting the side down.”

He said: “Without you there’d have been no side to let down.”

“Fiddlesticks!”

“And I don’t know why you should think that because
I’d
decided to give my life to God people would somehow expect the same of you. I can assure you I never did.” He paused. “However, like it or not, I very much believe you
are
a religious woman. Which doesn’t mean—no, not at all—that you’ve had to accept Christ as your saviour. There are many roads round the mountain.”

She answered cautiously.

“Well, I’m not saying that after spending nearly a quarter of my life with a theological student, and a curate, and a vicar, a little of it mayn’t have rubbed off. But Simon. It’s really such a relief to be able to talk like this. And while we’re at it there’s something else I’ve never quite been able to ask. What
made
you decide to give your life to God like that? Was it Ginny?”

“Yes.” The word was delayed; slightly clipped.

“And all along you’ve believed it was your own fault, haven’t you? Oh, you more than foolish child! But you’ve never let me comfort you.”

“Joel would now have been fourteen. Do you realize that?” The child, stillborn, had been a boy.

“Of course I do. There’s scarcely a day when I don’t think about them both. Him and Ginny.”

“In any case,” he said, “the guilt I felt, it really doesn’t matter whether it was rational or not. Perhaps I should have gone to a psychiatrist. Right now I’m glad I didn’t.”

His mother put another slice into the toaster.

“If that’s for me I couldn’t eat it.” This morning she had made him a cooked breakfast; insisted he had three eggs, three tomatoes, three rashers of bacon—mercifully, only one piece of fried bread.

“Frank Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade,” she said. “I got it specially.”

“Then Frank Cooper must possess his soul in patience.”

“But for
how
long? That’s the question.”

“God knows.”

“Oh dear.” She stared for an instant towards the window. “And why does it have to be raining? God may know all right but sometimes, it seems to me, God doesn’t go out of his way to make things any easier.”

“Hey!”

“How do
you
feel about it all?”

“You mean…now that the big day has actually arrived? I feel…well, okay.”

“Nervous?”

“Yes. Certainly nervous.
Very
nervous. It would be a little strange if I didn’t.”

“But you truly did manage to sleep? That wasn’t a kind story?”

“No, I truly did manage to sleep. And when I didn’t I was resting.”

“Praying?”

“If that’s what you want to call it. Thinking. Remembering. Feeling grateful.”

“Me, I just had a bad night.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t mind my talking to you about Ginny?”

“No.”

“I only wanted to say…” She looked down at the table.

“What?”

“Well, that while you’re walking to London, whatever the problems, however great the discouragement—”

“You don’t need to finish. I know that. Wherever I happen to be. Whatever I happen to be doing. I know that.”

She smiled, waveringly. “More of it must have rubbed off than I’d thought! Who would have guessed it: I’m a religious woman!”

He laughed—also a little waveringly. Bit his lip. Got up from the table.

She said more practically, “Have you remembered to pack plenty of these things?”

“Mother, I’m travelling down to London, not into the wilderness. In the wilderness, I grant, there aren’t too many corner shops. On the road to London you can certainly buy tissues.”

“Darling,” she said, with a sudden sharp and urgent note of warning. “Please. Please don’t hold out too much hope.”

“What? Of corner shops, or tissues?”

“Of there being lots of people waiting at the church.”

“My love, I’m not naive. My words from the pulpit may have made me seem so, but—in this rain?
Especially
in this rain, I ought to say. Twenty? Even if there are only twelve, that wouldn’t be too bad. In fact, tolerably auspicious.” He thought it must have helped prepare him that having sent off a score of letters to his and Ginny’s friends he hadn’t received one reply that had basically done more than wish
him
luck and his whole
fantastic
enterprise success. (Or
mind-blowing
or
worthy
or
admirable
, whatever.) “Anyway, give me a few minutes and we’ll go to find out,” he smiled. “Thank you for the breakfast. And once again—thank you for the money.”

The previous afternoon she had withdrawn five hundred pounds. He had accepted it, gratefully.

Now he went to the lavatory, cleaned his teeth and put some final items into his haversack—including the sandwiches and a large vacuum flask which made the straps almost impossible to fasten. And through all of this he prayed, as he did, too, during their brief car journey. It was all going to be all right. Even the fact of his mother not coming was providential: with Alison and Dulcie gone she’d be able to keep a watchful eye both on Sharon Turner and on others. Not so long ago he’d wondered if he could really leave these people; but now things had changed and although of course he recognized an element of rationalization it was in fact perfectly true that nobody was indispensable. While he was absent his duties would be covered by the vicar and the curate of St Lawrence’s, also by the vicar of All Saints. These were willing, sympathetic men, and he was pleased it hadn’t been necessary to foist additional problems onto the rural dean. But praise the Lord: it was still as well his mother would be staying.

The first people he saw when he got out of the car were Alison and Dulcie. They stood beneath the same umbrella.

“Simon,” said Alison, without preamble. “We’ve just heard something unfortunate. About Tony.”

“What about Tony?”

“Well, as it was raining he went to pick up the Heaths. Skidded on the way back. All that’s happened is that he and Bill have mild concussion plus a few cuts and bruises: they hit a lamppost. Dawn and Mick were sitting in the back and luckily weren’t hurt—just a little shaken up.”

“Are Tony and Bill at the hospital?”

“The ambulance took them all. Dawn’s husband went as well.”

“Was
he
in the car?”

“No. But I don’t know why not. There’d have been room.”

“What about April?”

It was Dulcie who answered this.

“Jack’s run her up to the hospital. Her and the babies.”

“Well, at least then it could have been worse.” He looked about him, dully. “Not what you’d call a
massive
turnout.” Apart from the two women in front of him and his mother at his side there were four. “Still, it isn’t yet nine.”

“Simon,” said Dulcie. “Jack and me aren’t coming.”

“What?”

“I only turned up so that I could let you know. We talked and we talked about it—and—well, you see, it’s like this, sort of…” She glanced at Alison for assistance.

“I’m afraid I’m not, either,” said Alison.

His eyes moved slowly from one to the other. With his lips, however, he said nothing.

“Simon, don’t look at us like that. At least we’ve had the guts to come and tell you. On Sunday you made it sound so simple. It isn’t simple. We’ve got homes and we’ve got families. We’ve got jobs. And once you lose a job these days—”

“Jobs,” said Simon.

“Yes. You don’t know what it means—”

Again he interrupted her. “Also, it’s raining.”

“Darling,” said Mrs Madison, reaching out to touch his arm and then holding onto it lightly. “Not ungentle—you remember?”

“Yes, and also it’s raining,” went on Alison, better able to cope with aggression than with pathos. “Simon, we all think the world of you, we really do, you’re the best thing that ever happened to this parish. And we’d like to be fully behind you, every one of us, but
this
, Simon, dear”—she briefly laid a hand on the other sleeve of his oilskin—“this really isn’t the way to do it. It’s a gallant gesture, it’s a marvellous gesture, it shows how very,
very
much you care. But it’s just quixotic, it won’t accomplish anything, and as Robert says…”

“Oh, yes? And what does Robert say?”

“He says it’s better to leave it to the proper ecclesiastical channels—quietly, correctly, without the rabble-raising element—to do that and…and to put all one’s trust into the good sense of the Church…and into…well, obviously, he says, the power of prayer.”

“Oh, has Robert suddenly become a believer, then? Great! But supposing you tell him that as a matter of fact I
have
been putting all my trust into the power of prayer? And at the same time you could try asking if he’s acquainted with that little phrase about a person’s stepping out in faith…? Excuse me, though, I’d like a quick word with the others.”

Easily pulling free of his mother’s restraining grip and leaving the three women standing at the kerbside he hurried to the church porch. He’d been surprised to see that Paula was one of those hanging back out of the rain—and at first even she had difficulty about meeting his gaze.

She appeared more breathless than ever. The problem was: she had an arthritic mother who said she couldn’t cope on her own and that, no, she didn’t want to have Cousin Rosie in the house, much less any stranger. Paula knew that—if she had to—her mother could have managed perfectly well.