Shit, Michael said. And double shit.
Before Lucy was born, Sally and Michael Appleyard had decided that they would not allow any children they might have to disrupt their lives. They had seen how the arrival of children had affected the lives of friends, usually, it seemed, for the worse. They themselves were determined to avoid the trap.
They had met through Michaels job, almost six years before Sally was offered the Kensal Vale curacy. Michael had arrested a garage owner who specialized in selling stolen cars. Sally, who had recently been ordained as a deacon, knew his wife through church and had responded to a desperate phone call from her. The apparent urgency was such that she came as she was, in gardening clothes, with very little make-up and without a dog collar.
Its a mistake, the woman wailed, tears streaking her carefully made-up face, some ghastly mistake. Or someones fitted him up. Why cant the police understand?
While the woman alternately wept and raged, Michael and another officer had searched the house. It was Sally who dealt with the children, talked to the solicitor and held the womans hand while they asked her questions she couldnt or wouldnt answer. At the time she took little notice of Michael except to think that he carried out a difficult job with more sensitivity than she would have expected.
Three evenings later, Michael arrived out of the blue at Sallys flat. On this occasion she was wearing her dog collar. Ostensibly he wanted to see if she had an address for the wife, who had disappeared. On impulse she asked him in and offered him coffee. At this second meeting she looked at him as an individual and on the whole liked what she saw: a thin face with dark eyes and a fair complexion; the sort of brown hair that once had been blond; medium height, broad shoulders and slim hips. When she came into the sitting room with the coffee she found him in front of the bookcase. He did not comment directly on its contents or on the crucifix which hung on the wall above.
When were you ordained?
Only a few weeks ago.
In the Church of England?
She nodded, concentrating on pouring the coffee.
So that means youre a deacon?
Yes. And thats as far as Im likely to get unless the Synod votes in favour of women priests.
A deacon can do everything a priest can except celebrate Communion: is that right?
More or less. Are you ?
A practising Christian? Im afraid its more theory than practice. My godfathers a priest.
Where?
He lives in Cambridge now. Hes retired. He used to teach at a theological college in the States. Michael sipped his coffee. I doubt if Uncle David approves of the ordination of women.
Many older priests find it hard to accept. And younger ones, too, for that matter. Its not easy for them.
They went on to talk of other things. As he was leaving, he paused in the doorway and asked her out to dinner. The invitation surprised her as much (he later admitted) as it surprised him. She refused, but he kept on asking until she accepted, just to get rid of him.
Michael took her to a Chinese restaurant in Swiss Cottage. For most of the time he encouraged her to talk about herself, either evading or returning short answers to the questions she lobbed in return. She told him that she had left her job as a careers adviser in order to go to theological college. Now she was ordained, she had little chance of finding a curacy in the immediate future, all the more so because her father was ill and she did not want to move too far away from him.
Besides, a lot of dioceses have no time for women deacons.
Michael pushed the dish of roast duck towards her. If youre a deacon or a priest well, that has to come first, I suppose? It has to be the most important thing in life, your first allegiance.
Of course.
So where do people fit in? I know youre not married, but do you have a boyfriend? And what about children? Or would God be more important?
Are you always like this?
Like what?
So pushy.
Im not usually like this at all.
She bent over her plate, knowing her thick hair would curtain her face. In those days she had worn it long, and gloried in it.
Youre not celibate, are you? he asked.
Its nothing to do with you.
Yes, it is.
As it happens, no. But its still nothing to do with you.
Three months later they were married.
It was ridiculous, Sally told herself, to read significance into the malicious ramblings of an unhappy woman. To see them as a portent would be pure superstition. Yet in the weeks that followed Sallys first service at St Georges, the old woman was often in her mind. The memory of what she had said was like a spreading stain. No amount of rubbing would remove it.
May God damn you and yours.
When Sally had been offered the curacy at Kensal Vale, it had seemed almost too good to be true, an answer to prayer. Although she was not personally acquainted with Derek Cutter, the vicar of St Georges, his reputation was impressive: he was said to be a gifted and dedicated parish priest who had breathed new life into a demoralized congregation and done much good in the parish as a whole.
The timing had seemed right, too. Sallys father had died the previous winter, bringing both sorrow and an unexpected sense of liberation. Lucy was ready to start school. Sally could at last take a full-time job with a clear conscience. And Kensal Vale was geographically convenient: she could walk from Hercules Road to St Georges Vicarage in forty minutes and drive it in much less, traffic permitting. The only drawback had been Michaels lack of enthusiasm.
What about Lucy? he had asked in an elaborately casual voice when she mentioned the offer to him. She wont be at school all the time.
Well find a child minder. It could actually do her good. She needs more stimulation than she gets at home.
Maybe youre right.
Darling, weve discussed all this. Not once, Sally thought, but many times. I was never going to be the sort of mother that stays at home all day to iron the sheets.
Of course not. And Im sure Lucyll be fine. But are you sure Kensal Vales a good idea?
Its just the sort of parish I want.
Why?
Its a challenge, I suppose. More rewarding in the end. Besides, I want to show I can do it, that a woman can do it. She glared at him. And I need the stimulation, too. Ive been freewheeling for far too long.
But have you thought it through? I wouldnt have said that Kensal Vales particularly safe these days. He hesitated. Especially for a woman.
Ill cope, Sally snapped. Im not a fool. She watched his mouth tightening and went on in a gentler voice, In any case, jobs like this dont grow on trees. If I turn this down, I may not be offered another for years. And I need to have experience before I can be priested.
He shrugged, failing to concede the point, and turned the discussion to the practical details of the move. He was unwilling to endorse it but at least he had not opposed it.
As summer slipped into autumn, Sally began to wonder if Michael might have been right. She was sleeping badly and her dreams were going through a patch of being uncomfortably vivid. The work wasnt easy, and to make matters worse she seemed to have lost her resilience. In the first week, she was rejected by a dying parishioner because she was a woman, a smartly dressed middle-aged man spat on her in the street, and her handbag was stolen by a gang of small boys armed with knives. Similar episodes had happened before, but previously she had been able to digest them with relative ease and consign them to the past. Now they gave her spiritual indigestion. The images stayed with her: the white face on the pillow turning aside from the comfort she brought; the viscous spittle gleaming on her handkerchief; and, hardest of all to forget, the children, some no more than five years older than Lucy, circling her in their monstrous game with knives in their hands and excitement in their faces.
As summer slipped into autumn, Sally began to wonder if Michael might have been right. She was sleeping badly and her dreams were going through a patch of being uncomfortably vivid. The work wasnt easy, and to make matters worse she seemed to have lost her resilience. In the first week, she was rejected by a dying parishioner because she was a woman, a smartly dressed middle-aged man spat on her in the street, and her handbag was stolen by a gang of small boys armed with knives. Similar episodes had happened before, but previously she had been able to digest them with relative ease and consign them to the past. Now they gave her spiritual indigestion. The images stayed with her: the white face on the pillow turning aside from the comfort she brought; the viscous spittle gleaming on her handkerchief; and, hardest of all to forget, the children, some no more than five years older than Lucy, circling her in their monstrous game with knives in their hands and excitement in their faces.
Nothing went right at home, either. Michael had retreated further into himself since the squabble on the way back from church and the subsequent discovery that Sunday lunch had turned into a burnt offering. There were no open quarrels but the silences between them grew longer. It was possible, Sally thought, that the problem had nothing to do with her he might be having a difficult time at work.
Everythings fine, he replied when she asked him directly, and she could almost hear the sound of the drawbridge rising and the portcullis descending.
Sally persevered. Have you seen Oliver lately?
No. Not since his promotion.
Thats great. When did it happen?
A few weeks back.
Why hadnt Michael told her before? Oliver Rickford had been his best man. Like Michael, he had been a high-flier at Hendon police college. They had not worked together since they had been constables, but they still kept in touch.
Whys he been made up to inspector and not you?
He says the right things in committee meetings. Michael looked at her. Also hes a good cop.
We must have him and Sharon over for supper. To celebrate. Sally disliked Sharon. Tuesdays are usually a good evening for me.
Michael grunted, his eyes drifting back to the newspaper in front of him.
I suppose we should ask the Cutters sometime, too.
Oh God. This time he looked up. Must we?
Their eyes met and for an instant they were united by their shared dislike of the Cutters. The dislike was another of Sallys problems. As the weeks went by, she discovered that Derek Cutter preferred to keep her on the sidelines of parish work. He made her feel that wearing a deacons stole was the clerical equivalent of wearing L-plates. She suspected that in his heart of hearts he was no more a supporter of women clergy than Michaels Uncle David. At least David Byfield made his opposition perfectly clear. Derek Cutter, on the other hand, kept his carefully concealed. She attributed her presence in his parish to expediency: the archdeacon was an enthusiastic advocate of the ordination of women, and Derek had everything to gain by keeping on the right side of his immediate superior. He liked to keep on the right side of almost everyone.
Lovely to see you, Derek said to people when he talked to them after a service or at a meeting or on their doorsteps. Youre looking blooming. And if he could, he would pat them, young or old, male or female. He liked physical contact.
Its not enough to love each other, he wrote in the parish magazine. We must show that we do. We must wear our hearts on our sleeves, as children do.
Derek was fond of children, though he preferred to look resolutely on the sunny side of childhood. This meant in effect that his benevolent interest was confined to children under the age of seven. Children grew up quickly in Kensal Vale and the area had an extensive population of little criminals. The picture of him in the Parish Room showed him beaming fondly at a photogenic baby in his arms. In his sermon on Sallys second Sunday at St Georges he quoted what was evidently a favourite text.
Let the children come to me, Jesus told his disciples. Do not try to stop them. For the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Mark ten, fourteen.
There should be more to being a vicar, Sally thought, than a fondness for patting people, a sentimental attachment to young children and a range of secular skills that might have earned him a decent living in public relations or local government.
Sally knew that she was being unfair to Derek. As an administrator he was first class. The parishs finances were in good order. The church was well-respected in the area. There was a disciplined core congregation of over a hundred people. As a parish, St Georges had a sense of community and purpose: Derek deserved much of the credit for this. And some of the credit must also be due to his wife. The Cutters, as Derek was fond of telling people, were a team.
Margaret Cutter was a plump woman who looked as if she had been strapped into her clothes. She had grey hair styled to resemble wire wool. Her kindness was the sort that finds its best expression in activity, preferably muscular. She invited Sally for coffee at the Vicarage on the Tuesday after Sallys first service at St Georges. They sat in a small, overheated sitting room whose most noteworthy features were the bars on the window and the enormous photocopying machine behind the sofa. On top of the television set stood a toy rabbit with soft pink fur and a photograph of Derek and Margaret on their wedding day. Sally thought that she looked older than her husband.
Just us two girls, Margaret said, offering Sally a plate of digestive biscuits, which proved to be stale. I thought it would be nice to have a proper chat. The chat rapidly turned into a monologue. Its the women who are the real problem. You just wouldnt believe the way they throw themselves at Derek. The tone was confiding, but the dark eyes flickered over Sally as if measuring her for a shroud. Of course, he doesnt see it. But isnt that men all over? Theyre such fools where women are concerned. Thats why they need us girls to look after them. Here she inserted a pause which gave Sally ample time to realize that, astonishing as it might seem, Margaret was warning her that Derek was off limits as a potential object of desire. I knew when I married him that he was going to be a full-time job. I used to be a lecturer, you know, catering was my subject; they begged me to stay but I said, No, girls, I only wish I could but I have to think of Derek now. Well, thats marriage, isnt it, for better or for worse, you have to give it top priority or else you might as well not do it. She stroked her own forearm affectionately. You must find it very hard, Sally, what with you both working and having the kiddie to think of as well. Still, I expect your Lucys grown used to it, eh? Such a sweet kiddie. In some ways its a blessing that Derek and I havent had children. I honestly dont think we would have had time to give them the love and attention they need. But that reminds me, I promised to give you Carla Vaughans phone number. I must admit shes not to everyones taste, but Derek thinks very highly of her. He sees the best in everyone, Derek does. You do realize that Carlas a single parent? Two little kiddies, with different fathers and I dont think she was married to either. Still, as Derek says, who are we to cast the first stone? Did he mention she likes to be paid in cash?
The following day, Wednesday, Sally took Lucy to meet Carla. She lived in a small terraced house which was almost exactly halfway between St Georges and Hercules Road. Half West Indian and half Irish, she had an enormous mop of red curly hair which she wore in a style reminiscent of a seventeenth-century periwig. The house seethed with small children and the noise was formidable. Carlas feet were bare, and she was dressed in a green tanktop and tight trousers which revealed her sturdy legs and ample behind; she was not a woman who left much to the imagination.