It wasnt over, not for either of us, and it wasnt all right. Two hours later, I wanted her again. We were still awake, talking about the future. Vanessa agreed with me that it would obviously take time before we were sexually in tune with each other. That was to be expected. The second time everything happened more slowly. She lay there while I explored the hollows and curves of her body with my mouth. She let me do whatever I wanted, and I did.
Dearest David, she murmured, not once but many times.
After I had come again, I asked if there was anything I could do for her, and she said no, not this time. She went into the little bathroom. I lit a cigarette and listened to the rustle of running water. When she came back, she was wearing her nightdress and her face was pink and scrubbed. Soon we turned out the light and settled down for sleep. I rested my arm over her. I felt her hand take mine.
How was it? I asked. Was it very painful?
Im a little sore.
Im sorry. I should have
It doesnt matter. I want to make you happy.
You do.
We were in Florence for seven days. We looked at pictures, listened to music and sat in cafés. And we made love. Each night she lay there and allowed me to do whatever I wanted; and I did. On the seventh night I found her crying in the bathroom.
Darling, whats wrong?
She lifted her tear-stained face to me, a sight which I found curiously erotic. Its nothing. Im tired, thats all.
Tell me.
Its a little painful. Sore.
I smiled. So am I, as a matter of fact. Not used to the exercise. I dare say well soon toughen up. Its like walking without shoes. One needs practice.
She tried to smile, but it didnt quite come off. And my breasts are rather painful too. I think my period is due.
We neednt do anything tonight, I said, my disappointment temporarily swamped by my desire to be kind.
We sat in bed reading. She was the first to turn out the light. The evening felt incomplete. I lay on my back and stared up into the darkness.
Vanessa? I said softly. Are you awake?
Yes.
How do you feel about making love when you have a period? It had suddenly occurred to me that it might be several days before we had an opportunity to do it again. I should say that I dont mind it, myself.
Actually, its very painful for me. I have heavy periods. Im sorry.
Not to worry, I said; I turned and put my arm around her. It doesnt matter. Sleep well. God bless.
As usual, her hand gripped mine. I lay there, my penis as erect as a guardsman on parade, listening to the sound of her breathing.
10
After our return from Italy, Vanessa and I slipped into the new routine of our shared lives. We were even happy, in a fragmentary fashion, as humans are happy. Though what was in store was rooted in ourselves in our personalities and our histories we had no inkling of what was coming. As humans do, we kept secrets from ourselves, and from each other.
Towards the end of May, Peter and June Hudson came to supper. They were our first real guests. The meal was something of a celebration. Peter had been offered preferment. Though there had been no official announcement, he was to be the next Bishop of Rosington.
Its a terrifying prospect, June said placidly. No more lurking in the background for me. No more communing with the kitchen sink. I shall have to be a proper Mrs Bishop and shake hands with the County.
You could be a Mrs Proudie, Vanessa suggested. Rule your husbands diocese with a rod of iron.
It sounds quite attractive. She smiled at her husband. Im sure Peter wouldnt mind. It would give the little woman something to do.
The news unsettled me. I was not jealous of Peters preferment, though in the past I might have been. But inevitably the prospect of his going to Rosington awakened memories.
After the meal, June and Vanessa took their coffee into the sitting room while Peter and I washed up.
When will you go to Rosington? I asked.
In the autumn. October, probably. I shall take a month off in August and try to prepare myself.
I squirted a Z of washing-up liquid into a baking dish. Ill miss you. And June.
You and Vanessa must come and visit. At least therell be plenty of space.
I dont know. Going back isnt always such a good idea.
Sometimes staying away is a worse one.
Damn it, Peter. You dont make it easy, do you?
He dried a glass with the precision he brought to everything. We worked in silence for a moment. It was a muggy evening and suddenly I felt desperate for air. I opened the back door to put out the rubbish. Lord Peter streaked into the kitchen.
Had I been by myself, I would have shouted at him. But I did not want Peter my friend, not the cat to think me more unbalanced than he already did. When I returned from the dustbin, I found that the two Peters had formed a mutual admiration society.
I didnt know you liked cats.
Oh yes. Is this one yours?
It belongs to one of my parishioners.
The cat purred. Peter, who was crouching beside it with a pipe in his mouth, glanced up at me. You dont like either of them very much?
Shes a good woman. A churchwarden.
Is that an answer?
Its all youre going to get.
I shall miss our regular meetings.
So shall I.
When I go to Rosington, youll need a new spiritual director.
I suppose so.
A change will do you good. Peters voice was suddenly stern, and the cat wriggled away from him. Perhaps we know each other too well. A new spiritual director may be more useful to you.
Id rather continue with you.
It just wouldnt be practical. We shall be too far away from each other. You need to see someone regularly. Dont you agree?
Yes. If you say so. My voice sounded sullen, almost petulant.
I do say so. Like one of those high-performance engines, you need constant tuning. He smiled at me. Otherwise you break down.
11
If it hadnt been for sex, or rather the lack of it, Vanessa and I would probably still be married. There was real friendship between us, and much tenderness. We filled some of the empty corners in each others lives. A semi-detached marriage? Perhaps. If so, the arrangement suited us both. Vanessa had her job, I had mine.
One of the things I loved most was her sense of humour, which was so dry that at times I barely noticed it. On one occasion she almost reduced Audrey to tears of rage by suggesting that we invited the pop group that played on Saturday nights at the Queens Head to perform at Evensong. It would encourage young people to come to church, dont you think?
On another occasion, one afternoon early in August, Vanessa and I were in our little library on the green. Vanessa took her books to the issue desk, to be stamped by Mrs Finch, the librarian. Audrey was hovering like a buzzard poised to strike in front of the section devoted to detective stories.
Id also like to make a reservation for a book thats coming out in the autumn, Vanessa said in a clear, carrying voice. The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer.
I glanced up in time to see a look of outrage flash between Mrs Finch and Audrey.
Mrs Finch closed the last of Vanessas library books, placed it on top of the others and pushed the pile across the issue desk. She jabbed the book cards into the tickets; the cardboard buckled and creased under the strain. She directed her venom at inanimate objects because by and large she was too timid to direct it at people.
While Vanessa was filling in the reservation card, I joined her at the issue desk to have my own books stamped. Audrey swooped on us; today her colour was high, perhaps because of the heat. So glad I caught you, she said, her eyes flicking from me to Vanessa. I wanted a word about the fete.
I did not dare look at Vanessa. The annual church fete was a delicate subject. It was held in my garden on the last Saturday in August. Audrey had organized it for the past nine years. Although she would almost certainly have resisted any attempt to relieve her of the responsibility, she felt organizing the church fete was properly the job of the vicars wife. She had made this quite clear to both Vanessa and me in a number of indirect ways in the past few weeks.
Vanessa, on the other hand, was determined not to act as my unpaid curate in this capacity or in any other, and I respected her for the decision. We had agreed this before our marriage. She had a demanding and full-time job of her own, and had little enough spare time as it was: I could not expect her suddenly to take on more work, even if she had wanted to.
This year we had another problem to deal with. This was the suburbs, so many of our patrons came in cars. In recent years, the Bramleys had allowed us to use their paddock, a field which lay immediately behind the church and the Vicarage, as a car park. Unfortunately, they had suddenly left Roth Park at the beginning of June. They had sold the house and grounds without telling anyone. Bills had not been paid. There were rumours relayed by Audrey that litigation was pending.
The new owner of Roth Park had not yet moved in, so we had not been able to ask whether we could have the paddock. It would not be easy to find an alternative.
Times beginning to gallop, Audrey told us. We really must put our thinking caps on.
Perhaps they could park in Manor Farm Lane, I suggested.
But theyd have to walk miles. Besides, its not a very safe place to leave cars. We have to face it: without the paddock, were hamstrung. I even rang the estate agents. But they were most unhelpful.
Weve still got several weeks. And if the worst comes to the worst, perhaps we can do without a car park.
Quite impossible, Audrey snapped. If people cant park their cars, they simply wont come.
It wasnt what she said it was the way in which she said it. Her tone was almost vindictive. In the silence, Audrey looked from Vanessa to me. Audreys face was moist and pink. Mrs Finch studied us all from her ringside seat from behind the issue desk. The library was very quiet. A wasp with a long yellow-and-black tail flew through the open doors into the library and settled on the edge of the metal rubbish bin. Lorries ground their way down the main road. The heat was oppressive.
Audrey snorted, making a sound like steam squirting from a valve, relieving the pressure of her invisible boiler. She turned and dropped the novels she was carrying on to the trolley for returned books.
Ive got a headache, she said. Not that any of you need concern yourselves about it. I shall go home and rest.
Mrs Finch and Vanessa began to speak at once.
My mother always said that a cold flannel and a darkened room began Mrs Finch.
Vanessa said, Im so sorry. Is there anything we ?
Both women stopped talking in mid-sentence because Audrey clearly wasnt listening, and had no intention of listening. She walked very quickly out of the library. I noticed that her dress was stained with sweat under the armpits. In a moment, the doorway was empty. I stared through it at the green beyond, at the main road, the tower of the church and the oaks of Roth Park. I heard the faint but unmistakable sound of a wolf whistle. I wondered if one of the youths were baiting Audrey as she scurried round the green to the sanctuary of Tudor Cottage.
Thatll be one shilling, Mrs Byfield. Mrs Finch held out her hand for the reservation card. Five pence. Well do our best, of course, but I cant guarantee anything. The stock editor decides which books we buy. He may not think this is suitable.
Vanessa smiled at Mrs Finch and gallantly resisted the temptation to reply. A moment later, she and I walked back along the south side of the green towards the Vicarage.
Is Audrey often like that? she asked.
She gets very involved with the fete. I felt I had to explain Audrey to Vanessa, even to apologize for her. Its the high point of the year for her.
I wonder why. Vanessa glanced up at me. Tell me, is she normally so irritable?
I felt uncomfortable. She did seem a little tetchy.
I wonder how old she is. Getting on for fifty? Do you think she might be going through the menopause?
I suppose its possible. Why?
It would explain a great deal.
Yes. I was in fact unclear what the change of life could mean for a woman. I put on speed, as if trying to walk away from this faintly unsavoury topic. But was she really acting so unusually? She did say she had a headache.
David. Vanessa put a hand on my arm, forcing me to stop and look at her. Youve known Audrey for so long that I dont think you realize how odd she is.
Surely not.
We moved on to the main road. We waited for a gap in the traffic.
Id better look in on her this evening, I said. See how she is.
I wouldnt. Fuel to feed the flame.
Flame? Dont be silly.
In silence, we crossed the road and went into the drive of the Vicarage.
Its not that I want to see her this evening, I went on, wondering if Vanessa might conceivably be jealous. People like Audrey are part of my job.
Vanessa thrust her key into the lock of the front door. You sometimes sound such a prig.
I stared at her. This was the nearest we had ever come to a quarrel. It was the first time that either of us had spoken critically to the other.
Vanessa pushed open the door. The telephone was ringing in the study. When I picked up the receiver, the news I heard pushed both Audreys problems and my squabble with Vanessa into the background.
12
When I was a child I had a jigsaw with nearly a thousand pieces, intricately shaped. Some of them had been cut into the shapes of objects which were entirely unrelated to the subject of the picture.
I remember a cocktail glass lying on its side in the blue of the sky, and a stork standing upside down in the foliage of an oak tree. A rifle with a telescopic sight was concealed in a door. Not that I knew that it was a door at the outset, or that the stork was in an oak tree. The point about the jigsaw was that a picture had not been supplied with it. Only by assembling the pieces could one discover what the subject was. Since much of the picture consisted of sky, trees, grass and road, it was not until a relatively late stage in the assembly that you realized that the jigsaw showed a Pickwickian stagecoach drawing up outside a country inn with a thatched roof.