The Country Doctor's Choice (8 page)

Beryl Johnson turned and looked at her with streaming eyes. ‘He was so kind and good to me when she died, but now he turns away, and I can’t bear it.’

Phyllis stared at her. ‘What do you mean? Who are you talking about?’

‘Him. The love of my life, Derek Bolt. I can’t live without a word from him.’

‘Good heavens! You’ll have to get over
that
, Beryl, or you could cause the vicar awful embarrassment, and besides, you’d make such a fool of yourself, people wouldn’t sympathise. It’s ridiculous.’

There was a pause, and Phyllis said, ‘Look, I’ve got family coming for lunch, and I’d ask you to join us, but not if you’re going to talk like this.’

‘I don’t want any company except his.’

‘You’re being extremely foolish, you know – what on earth would his wife think? Listen, I shall be at home for the rest of today, so here’s my phone number if you need to—er, need help of any kind.’

Even so, Phyllis felt that if this poor woman ‘did something silly’, she would feel at least partly responsible, and it troubled her throughout the rest of the day. She said nothing to Jenny or Tim: they had other matters to discuss, arising from the newspaper cutting.

Thoroughly disconcerted, Derek completed the Communion; he saw Phyllis Maynard lead Miss Johnson out during the singing of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, and also saw his sons having a giggle over Mr Pritchard’s disappointment at not singing ‘Patapan’.

‘That was a bit of bad luck,’ said Jeremy as they disrobed in the vestry.

‘God knows what I’m going do,’ the vicar replied grimly.

‘That makes two of us, then. Anyway, enjoy your dinner.’

‘They won’t be short of something to say over all the dinners in Everham today. Oh, bloody hell.’

Poor old Bolt, thought Jeremy on his way home. He’s right, this’ll spread for miles around.

Fiona was reproachful. ‘Where on earth have you been? I’ve been half out of my mind. Roy’s come home – that is to say he was brought home by two of his so-called friends who’d plied him with drink. I’ve put him to bed, but Denise is in an awful state, poor girl, I think she’s picked up a tummy bug – and what on earth’s the matter with Peter?’

For Peter had burst into tears, and was clinging to his grandfather’s left leg. ‘Wha’s a matter, G’andad? Me naughty?’

Jeremy bent down and picked him up. ‘No, no, my little man, you’re a
good
boy. Granddad will see to the turkey, and then we’ll all have a good Christmas dinner – won’t that be nice?’

He turned back to Fiona. ‘So you think Denise needs a doctor? It will be one from the emergency service, whoever’s on call.’

‘No need for a doctor,’ said Fiona quickly. ‘She
just needs a little love and care, that’s all, and I’m here to give it, fortunately.’

Jeremy felt himself tensing in every muscle, a sensation of warding off something he could not name. He could not quieten an awful suspicion forming at the back of his mind.

‘This decent boyfriend you mentioned, is she upset because he hasn’t been around lately?’

‘What’s that to do with anything?’

‘Put it another way, has she had her monthly on time? We’d better find out before we call out a doctor on Christmas Day, just to diagnose something she could diagnose herself, don’t you agree?’

Fiona’s face showed shock and disbelief. ‘How – how on earth could you say a thing like that? How could you be so heartless and cynical? Oh, Jeremy, what’s happened, you used to be so good to the children!’ She burst into tears, and in spite of her words, he guessed that he had only confirmed her own suspicion. He began to tremble, and knew that he had to get away as quickly as he could, before he completely lost control of his tongue. He was still clasping his grandson to his chest.

‘Come on, Peter-poppet, let’s get your coat and scarf – mustn’t forget your gloves – we’ll go and see if the Indian restaurant’s open on Christmas Day.’

His wife was now weeping piteously. ‘Is this all the sympathy your own daughter gets? And your son? When the vicar drops in at Everham Primary
and says what a wonderful school it is, how happy the children are, don’t you ever feel
shame
? If only people could see what you’re like in your own home – cruel, cruel!’

He did not answer but dressed Peter against the cold wind, and then marched straight out of the house, passing a curious neighbour at the gate. She stared at them.

‘Happy Christmas, Mr North! And little Peter too, isn’t it your dinner time?’

‘Happy Christmas back to you, Mrs – er – sorry, can’t remember your name. You’d better go in and comfort my wife, because I can’t. I’m escaping.’

‘Was she the poor old soul who’s lost her mother and her faith, the one you’ve been counselling, the one who writes the letters?’ asked Daphne Bolt. They were seated at the table for Christmas dinner, and Derek was carving the turkey.

‘Yes, what have you been up to, Dad?’ asked Philip with a grin.

The Reverend Derek Bolt was glad that the boys were home, treating the unfortunate scene in the church with light-hearted irreverence.

‘Think of all the talk going on as we speak, over the Christmas dinners in Everham,’ said Mark. ‘They’ll be wagging their tongues right up to the Queen’s speech!’

Daphne said nothing, but Derek knew that she
would return to the subject. Her expression boded no good to him; she clearly suspected that there must have been some encouragement on his part, for the woman to behave in such a way, and in public. When each of them had been served with a generous helping of turkey breast and stuffing, she started handing round the vegetable and gravy.

‘Wow! This
good
, Mum! Nobody can roast a spud like you do,’ said Philip.

‘And so say all of us,’ added Mark, in unspoken agreement with his brother to let the subject drop, remembering the despair in the woman’s eyes.

After the huge meal, the family sat down to watch a programme on the newly acquired black and white television set, looking back over the past year, especially to the fear and anxiety of the Cuban crisis, thankfully ended by the courage of young President Kennedy, advised, so many British believed, by the more mature wisdom of Prime Minister Harold Macmillan. Prayers had been offered up in thanksgiving for the mutual friendship between the two men.

When the doorbell rang, Derek stiffened. What now, he thought, bracing himself for another scene.

‘I’ll get it, Dad,’ said Mark hastily, intent on getting rid of any embarrassing visitors for his father.

A man and a small boy stood on the step. Mark recognised the choirmaster, and at first thought he was drunk, but then saw that he was in a desperate state of mind.

‘Mark? Or is it Philip?’ asked Jeremy North. ‘May I speak with your father – please?’

Mark had been about to say that his father was resting, but quickly realised that this was something serious.

‘Yes, come in,’ he said, holding the door open and guiding them into the study, where he pointed to an armchair, and switched on the one-bar electric fire.

‘It’s the organist, Dad, and he’s got a little nipper with him. He doesn’t look too good, I’ve put him in the study, and – er – I’ll hang around if you want to send the kid in here.’

Derek rose at once. ‘Thanks. Could we perhaps lay on a cup of tea?’ he asked, and Daphne rose to do her duty. Philip told her to sit down, and said he’d make the tea. ‘That takes care of the TV,’ he muttered to his brother. ‘We mustn’t let Mum miss the Queen.’

Derek greeted his visitors with a smile. ‘Hello, Jeremy, hello, Peter. I expect you’d like a cup of tea or something stronger?’

Jeremy half rose from the chair. ‘I don’t want anything – only to talk to somebody who’ll listen, preferably somebody with a bit of sense. I’m at my wit’s end.’

‘All right, old chap,’ said Derek lightly. ‘Shall we ask Mark to take Peter into the other room? The Christmas tree’s all lit up, and you might find something nice on it, eh, sonny?’

Mark beckoned to the child who looked somewhat
bewildered, but he followed Mark, and the door was shut. Derek turned to his guest.

‘Sit down, Jeremy, and I’ll take the other armchair. I keep them for the truly troubled – the hard wooden ones are for the time-wasters.’

There was a pause while Jeremy briefly covered his eyes, and Derek saw that his hands were trembling. ‘Take your time, Jeremy – whatever you say won’t go beyond this room.’

Again there was a pause, and then Jeremy burst out with, ‘I can’t endure life at home any longer, Derek. My family is – is undoing me. My elder daughter had a son when she was twenty, that’s Peter, apparently born without a father, but he’s a dear little chap, as you can see, he lives with us at home, my one and only comfort at home. Now I suspect she’s pregnant again with no father in sight, and she’s lost her job at the coal merchant’s because she was always off sick. My younger daughter looks like going the same way, can’t hold down a job, boyfriend’s in prison where at least he can’t impregnate her and my son has been chucked out by his wife for drinking – so he’s come home to be cosseted by his mother, leaving a poor little daughter fatherless – God knows what ghastly scenes she’s witnessed. That’s the family, Derek. My wife has so spoilt and indulged the three of them – she’s
ruined
them in every sense of the word, can’t see that they’re responsible for the mess they’re making of their own adult lives, and blames
me
for everything,
says I’m cruel and heartless, a headmaster who’s a saint at school and a devil at home. I’ve tried to make her see the harm she’s doing, but I’ve lost all authority in my own home, she thinks the sun shines out of their arseholes, and I’m actually beginning to dislike them. She and I had a wonderful marriage while they were young, we had great sex, we
loved
each other, but now she’d throw me out if she could afford to. Oh, how I envy you your sons, Derek – I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do for Christ’s sake.’

A light knock on the door announced Philip with a teatray. He set it down on the table and went out, closing the door softly and deciding that he hadn’t seen poor old North blubbing.

Derek leant over and touched Jeremy’s shoulder. ‘That’s better out than in, old chap. As it happens, you’re not the only man in Everham with family problems. I’m not exempt myself, as you may have noticed this morning. What you need is a break from it all. Is there a relative or friend you could go and stay with until term starts again? You’ve got a sister, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, near Basingstoke, but she and her husband have already got Catherine, the younger daughter, since early December. They’ve managed to talk some sense into her, and got her a job in an old peoples’ home.’

‘So she’ll be staying there, then, while you try to sort out the other problems?’

‘Yes, but that won’t change things with Fiona. She despises me for what she sees as my harshness, and I despise myself for having lost all authority. We loved each other once, but she’s come to hate me.’

‘Hm. It sounds pretty bad, but not hopeless. It takes two to fight, and your best course is probably to keep quiet. Don’t rise to the bait, keep your head down and ignore whatever Fiona throws at you. It’ll be easier when school starts again, and your position there will bolster your self-esteem. You’re very highly thought of at Everham Primary.’

‘That counts for nothing with a dysfunctional family, which is what mine would be called in a poor area with social workers and police on the doorstep,’ said Jeremy dully. ‘We Norths are a middle-class professional family, an image of respectability, and the more shame on me for failing to live up to that image.’

‘Don’t worry too much about images,’ said Derek. ‘It’s what God sees and knows that’s important.’

Jeremy gave a non-committal shrug, and hesitated; Derek waited for a sceptical response, but Jeremy had decided to make a further confession.

‘There is something else I could mention, Derek, something weighing on my mind,’ he said.

‘Fire away.’

‘There’s a girl – a young woman in the choir who shares my love of music. I’ve been tempted to ask her out for a quiet drink after rehearsals.’

‘But you haven’t done so?’ Derek had no difficulty in guessing the young woman’s identity; he had seen the looks that passed between them in church, especially hers.

‘Not so far, but – I feel I could confide in her, as if she would listen and understand without condemning me. It would mean so much.’

‘Ah! Here I
can
advise you, Jeremy. Don’t give in to temptation. It would only cause more trouble and would do no good to – to your soprano, and it would give Fiona a real grievance against you. Don’t do it, old chap – it would be a great mistake.’

Your soprano
. Was it that obvious? Did Derek suspect that he and Iris Oates were on the verge of an affair? Suddenly Derek spoke again.

‘Look, Jeremy, I should ask you to pray about this, in fact we should both pray together while we have this opportunity. I too have a problem, something that could cause serious harm to my marriage, and I’m equally in need of guidance. So come on, down on our knees,
now
!’

Jeremy’s sheer desperation overcame any sense of the ridiculous in the picture of two middle-aged men kneeling together on the worn carpet with an ancient ink-stain between them. He felt that he had been right to come here, and was almost relieved to know that the vicar had his own problems, no doubt to do with that interruption to the service that morning.

He waited for Derek to voice a prayer, while at
the same time Derek wondered what words to use. The Book of Common Prayer, the original version, supplied him.

Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts
… the ancient words sounded exactly right and appropriate, and Jeremy said a heartfelt ‘Amen’ at the end. They rose from their knees, and Derek recalled little Peter from his frolicking with the two young men. He and Jeremy shook hands. ‘One day at a time, old chap,’ he whispered.

It had been a good move.

Christmas was over, and the New Year yet to come. Mary Whittaker rang the doorbell of 25 Angel Close, half-hoping that Miss Johnson would not be in, but intent on doing her duty as a churchwarden. Beryl came to the door and stared blankly at her visitor.

Mary smiled. ‘Ah, Beryl, I’m glad to find you at home. Would it be convenient for me to come in and have a little chat? I won’t keep you long.’

‘All right, yes, er – Mrs Whittaker.’ Beryl opened the door and showed her visitor into a rather chilly living room, where Mary at once saw a photograph of the Vicar on top of the piano. Beryl noticed her glance, but said only, ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘No, don’t bother. If we could just sit down for a few minutes, I want to know how you are, my dear.
Tell me, how are you feeling now, Beryl? I mean after that little spot of bother on Christmas morning? Have you recovered? Forgive me, I don’t want to pry, but I’ve been very concerned about you, and so has Mrs Maynard.’

‘Yes, she brought me home in her car,’ said Beryl dully.

‘Yes. You do realise, don’t you, Beryl, that such a scene was very embarrassing, not only to the vicar but to Mrs Bolt and their two nearly grown-up sons. It really mustn’t happen again, you know.’

There was a pause before Beryl answered in the same flat tone, ‘The only way to stop it happening again is to stay away from the church, and that I’m not going to do.’

‘I’m sure nobody wants to make you feel an outcast, Beryl, though it might be a good idea to attend another church for a while. There’s the Methodist church in Everham, that’s very well attended, especially since Mr Peacock arrived – remember Christmas Eve, when his baby girl was born?’

Mary gave a little chuckle, but Beryl stared at the floor and did not reply.

‘Beryl dear, would you like to confide in me about how you feel? I promise you that it will go no further than this room, and you’d probably feel better if you can talk about it.’

She waited, and Beryl appeared to be debating within herself how to reply, but in fact she was
exercising a rigid self-control. Mary tried again.

‘We all know what a sad time you’ve had over the last year, Beryl, nursing your dear mother for so long, and then losing her and having to cope with all the formalities, the funeral and – everything. We all felt for you. Your brother came over from Canada, didn’t he?’

Beryl’s self-control suddenly gave way. ‘Yes, George came over, not that it affected
him
that much. He’s got his wife and kids, and kept telling me how much he missed them, couldn’t wait to get back to Ontario. Not like Mr Bolt!’ Her pale face flushed, and her voice rose. ‘
He
held me in his arms and kissed me. He comforted me as nobody else did, and I’ll never forget the feel of his arms around me, and the touch of his lips on my cheek! How can you wonder that I love him? How could I not? I adore him, he’s the love of my life, as God sees and knows. I don’t want to go to the Methodists, I want to go where I can see
him
, listen to him – I know you mean well, but you’ll never understand a love like this!’

Mary was taken aback, for this was a confession indeed, and she needed to proceed with caution. She got up from her chair, and went to place a hand on Beryl’s shoulder.

‘But my dear Beryl, he’s a consecrated man of the church, a married man with a wife and two sons.
You
must try to see this from his point of view – he comforted you at your mother’s funeral, but it meant
no more than that. I’m sorry if I sound unkind, but you’ll have to get over this – this, er, obsession. You must pray for help to get over it.’

‘Oh, shut up! Don’t pretend that you understand, because you
don’t
!’ Beryl shouted, so that Mary recoiled. ‘Go and leave me in peace!’

Mary put on her gloves. ‘I’m sorry to find you in this state of mind, Beryl, and I can see that I’ve been wasting my time and yours. Just think over what I’ve said, and if you are so strongly affected by Mr Bolt, keep away from him for his sake as well as your own. I’ll leave now – don’t get up, I can see myself out. And I’ll pray for you.’

She chided herself as she got into her car. I’ve only made things worse, she thought, and done more harm than good. Her annoyance at her clumsy handling of a delicate situation was equalled by her apprehension of what the silly woman might do next.

Alone, Beryl fell to her knees, facing the armchair where Mary had sat.

‘O Lord, almighty Father,
you
see,
you
know, take pity on me and lead
him
to pity me, too. I only ask for a kind look, a word, a touch, a handshake, even a little note, that’s all I ask, anything to relieve this emptiness, this terrible longing!’