Thats all right. She looked out of the window, not at me. I didnt expect you to phone me back so late.
Im sorry?
She turned from the window and looked at me. Didnt you get my message?
What message?
I phoned last night. I had another phone call, and I I thought you might not have been able to get through. I left a message saying Id phoned.
I didnt receive it. I thought of Rosemary waiting for me in the porch of the church. You must have spoken to my daughter. I expect it slipped her mind.
She smiled. Young people have more important things to think about than relaying phone messages.
Yes. I did not know what to say next. I knew I should make the coffee, but I did not want to leave Vanessa. I cleared my throat. I saw Cynthia yesterday afternoon. She brought those things round for Rosemary.
I know. She told me I think she may have misled you about something.
I stared at her. We were still standing in the middle of the room.
Vanessa picked at a piece of fluff on her sleeve. I believe she gave you to understand that Ronnie and I are engaged.
I nodded.
Well, thats not true. Not exactly.
I patted the pockets of my jacket, looking for the cigarettes I had left in the study. Theres no need to tell me this. Its none of my business.
Cynthia and Ronnie were very good to me when Charles died.
Im sure they were.
You dont understand. When something like that happens you feel empty. And you can become very dependent on those who help you. Emotionally, I mean.
I do understand, I said. Only too well.
Im sorry. She bit her lip. Ronnie told me about your wife.
Its all right. It was a long time ago.
One gets so wrapped up in oneself.
I know.
Listen, two weeks ago, Ronnie asked me to marry him. I didnt say yes, but I didnt say no, either. I said I needed time. But he thought I was eventually going to say yes. To be perfectly honest, I thought I was going to say yes. In a way I felt that he deserved it. And Im fond of him Besides, I dont like living on my own.
I see. Wont you sit down?
I was not sure whether she was talking to me as a man or as a priest a not uncommon problem in the Anglican Church. When we sat down, somehow we both chose the sofa. This had a low seat uncomfortably low for me. It caused Vanessas skirt to ride up several inches above the knees. The sight was distracting. She snapped open her handbag and produced a packet of cigarettes, which she offered to me. I found some matches in my pocket. Lighting the cigarettes brought us very close together. There was now no doubt about it: as far as I was concerned, the man was well in ascendancy over the priest.
Ronnie hoped to announce our engagement on Friday evening, she continued. I think thats why he wanted the dinner party to show me off. I didnt want that. She blew out a plume of smoke like an angry dragon. I didnt like it, either. It made me feel like a trophy or something. And then this morning, Cynthia told me shed been to see you, told me what shed said. I was furious. Im not engaged to Ronnie. In any case, its nothing to do with her.
No doubt she meant well, I said, automatically clinging to the saving grace of good intentions.
We all mean well, Vanessa snapped back. Sometimes thats not enough.
We smoked in silence for a moment. I glanced at her stockinged legs, dark and gleaming, and quickly looked away. She fiddled with her cigarette, rolling it between finger and thumb.
The book, I said, my voice a little hoarse. What did you think of it?
Yes. She seized the envelope as if it were a life belt. Theres a good deal of interesting material in it. Particularly if you know Roth well. But Im afraid its not really suitable for us.
Is it worth our trying elsewhere?
Frankly, no. I dont think any trade publisher would want it. Its not a book for the general market.
Too short, I said slowly, and too specialized. And not exactly scholarly, either.
She smiled. Not exactly. If the author wants to see it in print, shell probably have to pay for the privilege.
I thought you might say that.
Shell probably blame my lack of acumen, Vanessa went on cheerfully. A lot of authors appear to believe that there are no bad books, only bad publishers.
So what would you advise?
Theres no point in raising her hopes. Just say that I dont think its a commercial proposition, and that I advised investigating the cost of having it privately printed. She could sell it in the church, in local shops. Perhaps theres a local history society which would contribute towards the costs.
Is there a printer you could recommend?
You could try us, if you like. We have our own printing works. We could certainly give you a quotation.
Really? That would be very kind.
Simultaneously we turned to look at one another. At that moment there was a sudden movement at the window. Both our heads jerked towards it as if tugged by invisible strings, as if we were both conscious of having done something wrong. I felt a spurt of anger against the intruder who had broken in on our privacy. Audreys cat was on the sill, butting his nose against the glass.
Vanessa said, Is that is that yours?
No he belongs to Audrey, in fact the person who wrote the book.
Oh. She looked relieved. My mother was afraid of cats. She was always going on about how insanitary they were. How they brought germs into the house, as well as the things they caught. She glanced sideways at me. Do you think these things can be hereditary?
Phobias?
Oh, its not a phobia. I just dont particularly like them. In fact, that ones rather dapper. It looks as though hes wearing evening dress.
She was right. The cat was black, except for a triangular patch of white at the throat and more white on the paws. As we watched, he opened his mouth, a pink-and-white cavern, and miaowed, the sound reaching us through the open fanlight of the window.
Hes called Lord Peter, I said.
Why?
As in Dorothy L. Sayers. Audrey reads a lot of detective stories. His predecessor was called Poirot. And before him, there were two others before my time: one was called Brown after Father Brown, and the first of the line was Sherlock.
I cant say I have much time for detective stories.
Nor do I.
I repressed the uncharitable memory of the time that Audrey had lent me Sayerss The Nine Tailors, on the grounds that it was not only great literature but also contained a wonderfully convincing portrait of a vicar. I stood up, went to the window and waved at Lord Peter, trying to shoo him away. I did not dislike cats in general, but I disliked this one. His constant intrusions irritated me, and I blamed him for the strong feline stench in my garage. Ignoring my wave, he miaowed once more. It occurred to me that I felt about Lord Peter as I often felt about Audrey: that she was ceaselessly trying to encroach on our privacy at the Vicarage.
David?
I turned back to Vanessa, ripe and lovely, looking up at me from the sofa. What is it?
To go back to to Ronnie. Its just its just that Im not sure Im the right person to marry a clergyman.
Why?
Im not a regular churchgoer. I dont even know if I believe in God.
It doesnt matter, I said, knowing that it did, though not perhaps in the way she thought. In any case, belief in God comes in many forms.
But his parish, the bishop
I am sure Ronald thought of all that. I dont mean to pry, but surely it came up when he asked you to marry him?
She nodded. He said that God would find a way.
There was a silence. Lord Peter rubbed his furry body against the glass and I wanted to throw the ashtray at him. I felt a rush of anger towards Ronald, joining the other emotions which were swirling round the sitting room. If I stayed here, they would suck me down.
I moved to the door. Ill make the coffee. I wont be a moment.
I slipped out of the room without giving her time to answer. In the hall I discovered that my forehead was damp with sweat. The house seemed airless, a redbrick coffin with too few windows. I went into the kitchen and opened the back door. While I was waiting for the kettle to boil I stared at my shrunken garden.
It was then that the idea slithered like a snake into my mind, showing itself openly for the first time: if anyone was going to marry Vanessa Forde, why shouldnt it be me?
6
Vanessa did not linger over coffee. It was as if she were suddenly desperate to leave. We made no arrangement to see each other again. During the afternoon, I called at Tudor Cottage and relayed her opinion of The History of Roth to its author. Audreys reaction surprised me.
But what do you think, David?
I think Vanessas opinion is worth taking seriously. After all, its her job. And its true that The History of Roth is rather short for a book.
Perhaps shes right. Perhaps it would be simpler to have it privately printed. And then we wouldnt have to share the profits with the publisher. I wonder how much it would cost?
I dont know.
Would you mind asking Mrs Forde on my behalf? Id feel a little awkward doing it myself. I havent even met her.
Audrey continued to play the unwitting Cupid. After discussing the pros and cons exhaustively with me, she entrusted Royston and Forde with the job of printing The History of Roth. Audrey asked me to in her words see it through the press for her. The typescript provided a reason for Vanessa and me to see each other without commitment on the one hand or guilt on the other; she was doing her job and I was helping a friend. We spent several evenings editing the book, and several more proofreading it. Usually we worked at her flat.
Vanessa cooked me meals on two occasions. Once I took her out to a restaurant in Richmond to repay her hospitality. I remember a candle in a wax-covered Chianti bottle, its flame doubled and dancing in her eyes, a red-and-white checked tablecloth and plates of gently steaming spaghetti bolognese.
Its a shame theres not more material about Francis Youlgreave, she said on that evening. And whys Audrey so keen to avoid giving offence?
Because shes a prude and a snob. I said, When she was growing up, the Youlgreaves were the local grandees.
So you had to treat even their black sheep with respect? That may have been true once, but does she need to be so coy now?
I shrugged. Its her book, I suppose.
Ive been rereading Franciss poems. Hed be an interesting subject for a PhD. Or even a biography. Now that would be commercial.
Warts and all?
Vanessa grinned across the table. If you took away the warts, you wouldnt have much left. Nothing interesting, anyway.
There was no element of deception about our meetings. Vanessa never mentioned Ronald, and nor did I. I assumed that an engagement was no longer on the cards. The Trasks knew that Vanessa and I were working together on The History of Roth. What Cynthia thought about it, I did not know; but Ronald took it in his stride.
And hows the book coming along? he asked me at one of the committee meetings he so frequently convened. He smiled, and his white teeth twinkled at me. Vanessas told me all about it. Im grateful, actually. Shes seeing another clergyman in a secular context, as it were. Its so easy for lay people to assume were all dog collars and pious sentiments.
When two people work together towards a shared goal, it can create a powerful sense of intimacy. Vanessa and I did not hurry, and at least the little book benefited from the attention we lavished on it. It was a happy time because we discovered that many of our tastes coincided books, paintings, humour. Being a parish priest can be a lonely job, and her friendship became precious to me. Two months later, by the middle of November 1969, I decided to ask Vanessa to marry me.
It was not a decision I reached hastily, or rashly. It seemed to me that there was a host of reasons in favour. Vanessa was an intelligent and cultivated woman, a pleasure to be with. I was lonely. Rosemary would benefit from having an older woman in the family. The Vicarage needed the warmth Vanessa could bring to it. The wife of a parish priest can act as her husbands eyes and ears. Last but not least, I urgently wanted to go to bed with Vanessa.
I was very calm. How things had altered, I thought smugly, since I had last considered marriage. Before proposing to Vanessa, I discussed my intentions with my spiritual director, Peter Hudson. He was an old friend who had helped me cope in those dark days after I left Rosington.
Peter was a few years older than I and was now a suffragan bishop in the neighbouring diocese of Oxford. At that time, he lived in Reading, which meant I could easily drive over and see him.
The Hudsons had a modern house on an estate. Peters wife June welcomed me with a kiss, gave each of us a cup of coffee and shooed us upstairs to his little study. The atmosphere was foggy with pipe smoke.
Youre looking well, he said to me. Better than Ive seen you for some time.
Im feeling better.
What do you want to talk about?
Im thinking of getting married again.
Peter was in the act of lighting his pipe. He cocked an eye at me through the smoke. I see.
Her names Vanessa Forde. Shes a widow, and a partner in a small publishing company in Richmond. Shes thirty-nine.
Smoke billowed from the pipe, but Peter said nothing. He was a small, sturdily built man who carried too much surplus fat. His plump face was soft-skinned and relatively unlined, with heavy eyebrows sprouting anarchically like twin tangles of barbed wire. He was the only person in the world who knew how ill suited I was to celibacy.
Tell me more.
I told him how I had met Vanessa and how working on The History of Roth had brought us together. I outlined my reasons for asking her to marry me.
I realize it must seem selfish of me, I said, but I know she doesnt want to marry Ronald. And I honestly think I could make her happy. And she could make me happy, for that matter.
Do you love her?
Of course I do. Im not pretending its a grand passion Im middle-aged, for heavens sake. But theres love, nonetheless, and liking, shared interests, affection