And what were they then, twenty-one, twenty-two? More than half a life ago now. Graduates, just, and already moving on to the next thing. Michael at theological college, preparing for ministry, talking about curacies and parishes and the discernment of vocation; Catherine less certain, knowing only that she wanted to carry on studying English, that she didnt want to fall into teaching the way so many of her friends had done. No more than two years since theyd met, volunteering at the chaplaincys soup run Michael overflowing with the thrill of new belief, Catherine looking for some way to rekindle a childhood faith which had been more inheritance than choice and already the thought of them not being together had seemed puzzling and unreal. As if they had been brought inevitably to one another. Which shed believed, then. Their life together had been so filled with purpose that it had felt like something more than chance: the soup-run project, and the Christmas night shelter theyd helped set up; the prayer vigils theyd organised, the 24-hour fasts; and that summer in Europe, sleeping in train stations and parks, going to free concerts in bombed-out churches, sharing open-air communion with Germans and Italians and Norwegians and thinking that this was how life would be for them now, that this endless sense of possibility was what her faith could finally come to mean.
And then there was marriage, ordination, a first curacy, a flat. A masters degree, a PhD proposal, a funding problem, and falling into teaching term by term. All these things decided, settled, while they were still too young to know any better. You can go back to the research later though, Michael had told her, when the PhD fell through and she found herself accepting teaching work after all; there wasnt any rush. Trying to reassure her. Keeping one eye on what she was doing.
On Monday morning they found the yoghurt spoon outside the American womans room, with a note. THANK YOU FOR THE SPOON, it said. Catherine knocked at the door, and waited a moment before peering inside. The bed was made, and the holdall the woman had brought with her was gone. But there were still clothes in the wardrobe, and a scarf hanging on the back of the door.
She hasnt left then, Catherine said.
Doesnt look like it, Michael said, already turning away.
She might have just forgotten to pack everything.
Maybe, he said, in a tone which suggested it was unlikely, and went downstairs. She closed the door and followed him, picking up the post and dropping it on the kitchen table while Michael put the kettle on to boil. She cut two slices of bread and put them in the toaster, and Michael fetched plates and knives and butter and honey from the cupboard. Unthinking, this routine. Unbreakable, almost.
I dont like her, Catherine announced. Michael looked at her strangely.
Like her? he said. You dont even know her. Why would you like her or not like her? The toaster popped up before the toast was ready, as it always did. Something was wrong with the timer, apparently. Nothing which couldnt be fixed. Catherine reached over and put it down again.
I dont like her, Catherine announced. Michael looked at her strangely.
Like her? he said. You dont even know her. Why would you like her or not like her? The toaster popped up before the toast was ready, as it always did. Something was wrong with the timer, apparently. Nothing which couldnt be fixed. Catherine reached over and put it down again.
Theres something about her, she said. She makes me uncomfortable. The way she looks at me. The way she seems to be taking us for granted. Michael filled the teapot, put it on the table, and sat down.
The way she looks at you? he repeated. He seemed amused. The toaster popped up, and she put it down again.
And the way she wont answer my questions, she added. Michael made a noise in the back of his throat, something like a snort or a stopped chuckle. A harrumph, people would once have called it. Shed married a man who harrumphed at her across the breakfast table. The toaster popped up a third time. She brought the toast to the table and passed it over to him. Whats she doing here, Michael? she asked, sharply. Whats she doing in our house? She could be anyone. We dont even know her name. He finished buttering his toast before replying, and she saw, in his expression, that same infuriating self-assurance which the American woman had shown her.
First, he said, its not our house. Its a vicarage. It belongs to the church, and were guests here just as much as she is. Catherine tried to cut in, but he held up a finger to stop her. Actually held up a finger. When had he started doing this? Why had she never said anything?
Second, he continued, this woman came to me asking for help, and regardless of whether shes odd or evasive or whether shes even telling the truth I dont see that any harm can come of offering her a room for a few nights. Its not as if we need it. He poured the tea, sliding hers across the table and reaching for the pile of post. But if you think Ive made a mistake, he said, youre welcome to ask her to leave.
There was a word for this, for the way he was being about this whole thing superior? Supercilious? And there was a word for women like her who put up with this kind of behaviour for as long as she had a word like, what, weak? Not weak exactly, it was more complicated than that, but not decisive, not assertive. Not when it mattered. She stood up, leaving the tea on the table and her toast uneaten. Shed given up slamming doors a long time ago, so instead she just left it gaping open and went upstairs to get ready for work.
Work was a lecturing post in the English department at the new university. She hadnt ever got back to the research. There werent all that many research positions available in the English departments of new universities. She wrote the odd paper here and there, did her bit to keep the research assessment scores at a respectable level, but mostly she concentrated on shepherding her students through the set texts and critical literature; giving lectures and seminars, setting essays and marking essays and trying to keep up with all the paperwork which had lately crept into the job.
It was a good job though. She liked it. She couldnt remember, now, why she had once been so determined to avoid teaching. She enjoyed standing in front of a group of students and helping them work their way towards an understanding of what literature could do, what it did do. Developing the analytical tools, it was called these days, although she preferred her first departmental heads description of it as turning the lights on in there.
She liked being in an environment where people enjoyed what they were doing, valued it, even if they tried to pretend they didnt. She liked having colleagues at all shed seen how Michaels solitary, self-directed work had isolated him at times, turned him in on himself and she enjoyed just sitting in the staffroom with them, drinking coffee, talking, listening to gossip. Of which there seemed only to be more the older they got; some of her colleagues were divorced already, one more than once, and over the years thered been regular talk of goings on behind marital backs. Shed even, once, found herself in a situation where it had been made clear that something like that had been an option for her. But the idea had seemed absurd, a caricature of any discontent she might have been feeling, and shed declined. She wondered if that had ever been gossiped about around the coffee table there, with the curled-corner posters of fat new novels stuck to the walls and the ring-binders stacked in the corner behind the door. It seemed unlikely.
When she got home that afternoon, Michael showed her a note hed found on the desk in his study. WOULD APPRECIATE FEWER QUESTIONS, it said; MY CONDITION DOES NOT RESPOND WELL TO STRESS.
You have to ask her to leave, Catherine said. Michael made a non-committal sound, an mm or an umm, and Catherine waited for something more.
Its quite a statement though, isnt it? he said. What did you say to the woman?
Michael, please. Im just not comfortable with her being in the house, Catherine said.
Do you think shes on some kind of fast? Michael asked. Catherine took the note from his hand and looked at it again.
What? she said.
Do you think shes fasting? he repeated.
I dont know, Michael, she said, I really dont know. She was suddenly very tired.
Because as far as I can see shes only eating yoghurt, he said. Have you noticed her eating anything else? She hasnt asked to use the kitchen. Shes never joined us for dinner, she keeps insisting on not being hungry. Havent you noticed? He seemed fascinated by the idea.
Michael, Catherine said. He looked up. She cant stay.
The woman came back late. They heard her letting herself in while they were clearing away the dinner things, and by the time Catherine had got out to the hallway she was halfway up the stairs.
Hello again, Catherine said. The woman turned round, the holdall in one hand and a carrier bag filled with pots of yoghurt in the other.
Hey, she said. Her hair was hanging limply around her face, and her skin was even paler than it had been before. She looked exhausted, ill.
No luck at the hospital? Catherine asked. The woman stared at her.
Does it look like it? she said, turning away. She was almost at the top of the stairs before Catherine could take a breath and respond.
Excuse me, she said, raising her voice a little. Sorry? The woman stopped, but didnt turn round. Sorry, Catherine said again, trying to soften her voice with a laugh; but I was just wondering. I mean, we dont actually know each others names, do we? Waiting for the woman to turn round, feeling her fists almost clenching when she didnt. My names Catherine, she called up.
Hello, Catherine, the woman said, flatly, and continued on up the stairs to her room.
Catherine stood in the hallway, waiting for something, unwilling to go straight back to the kitchen and have Michael ask about her day and what they might watch on the television as if nothing untoward was going on. As if the woman wasnt staying longer than hed said she would. As if the woman had been open and straightforward with them and given them no cause for concern.