Which Reminded Her, Later
Grantham
And then there was the American woman hed offered the spare room to that time, without question or thought or apparent consideration of the fact that Catherine might at least like to have been told. The first shed known about it had been when shed got home from work and found the woman standing there in the hallway, looking not at all surprised or uncomfortable, eating natural yoghurt straight from the pot and waiting for whatever it was that Catherine was going to say. Which had of course been nothing more than a faintly quizzical hello? Holding the front door open behind her, the rain blowing in from the garden and something like smugness or amusement lingering on the American womans face for just a moment before she finally acknowledged Catherine with a quietly unconcerned hello of her own. And carried on eating the yoghurt. And made no attempt to explain herself.
A strange-looking woman, she remembered. Very slim, and very pale, with rubbed-red eyes and mismatched layers of clothing; a long cotton dress, a mans checked shirt, a college scarf, a beige raincoat. Sandals. No make-up. She looked at first as though she might be in her sixties, but Michael said later that hed thought she was closer to forty-five. Which was their own age at the time, in fact.
Can I help you? Catherine had asked, only slightly more pointedly strange, this reluctance to be more direct, to say who the hell are you and do you mind getting out of my house and the woman had shaken her head, and smiled graciously, and said, Oh, no, thank you, your husbands been very kind already. Holding up the yoghurt spoon to demonstrate what kindness shed been shown. At which point Michael had appeared, loitering purposefully in the study doorway, and Catherine had understood the situation, had gone straight through to the kitchen without another word to take off her wet coat and sit at the table and wait for something like an explanation while the woman drifted away upstairs.
The woman had been in a bit of a situation, apparently. That was what shed told Michael, and that was what he told Catherine when he followed her through to the kitchen and sat at the table to explain. She wasnt someone who went about asking like this, shed told him, but she wasnt sure what else she could do. Shed come over for some medical treatment, shed heard that the hospital here was a world-renowned centre for people with her condition, and of course she hadnt thought shed need worry about accommodation, it being a hospital and everything, only now thered been some difficulty about being admitted, a difficulty she was never very clear about but which seemed to involve documents she didnt have, and she should have foreseen that, of course, she knew she should, but people with her condition tended to grab at possibilities and this is a world-renowned centre were talking about at the hospital here and logistics came second to hope sometimes, Michael understood that, didnt he? But the thing was shed spent all her money getting here and so just for now she was in this sort of, well, this situation. If he knew what she was saying.
That first conversation had taken place at the church. People often went there looking for help, and Michael almost always gave them something: food, or money, or the address of somewhere else they could go. Sometimes it was enough that he didnt just shut the door in their faces, that he listened to their long explanations of funerals to be attended, school trips to be paid for, faulty gas meters and lost cheques and misunderstandings over benefit forms. He wasnt naive; he knew when to say no. It was just that he didnt always think being spun a yarn was a good enough reason for not doing what he could to help. Its the desperate ones who come up with the best stories, he used to say, and Catherine had admired him for this, once, for his refusal to let cynicism accumulate with each knock at the church office door. She wasnt capable of such a refusal, she knew. Shed grown cynical in her own job a long time ago, listening to students mumble excuses about late and inadequate coursework, attending departmental meetings where people used phrases like rebranding the undergraduate experience. And then coming home from one of those meetings to find a strange American woman eating yoghurt in her hallway.
Theyd had people staying before, of course. That wasnt new. Lodgers, friends of friends, people like this woman who just turned up at the church needing somewhere to stay. Catherine didnt usually mind. Vicarages were big houses, and they had plenty of spare rooms. Michael seemed to consider it as much a part of his job as the visiting, the preaching, the offering of communion; or not even as part of his job so much as part of his life. What does our faith mean, if we dont do these things for even the least among us? Shed heard him say that in his sermons, many times, and shed been thrilled by how sincerely hed seemed to mean it, once.
Shed asked him how long the American woman was going to stay and hed said not long. A couple of nights, three at most. Maybe four. Shed asked him why he hadnt talked to her first, and hed said he hadnt really had the chance and didnt she trust his judgment? Shed asked what sort of condition the woman had that would bring her all this way to find treatment, and hed said that he wasnt sure, that the woman hadnt been specific but that hed got the impression it was some kind of bone disease. Something quite rare, hed said, and shed raised her eyebrows, and made a disbelieving face, and said that he wasnt making any sense, the story didnt make any sense. Which hed pretended to ignore, and so when theyd made dinner then it had been in a bristling near-silence. Catherine boiling and draining and mashing the potatoes, adding butter and milk and salt. Michael turning the sausages under the grill, setting the table, stirring the gravy, disappearing upstairs to ask the woman to join them, coming back to report that shed said she wasnt hungry and she didnt want to put them out. Moving around each other with a practised ease, passing forks and spoons and stock cubes from hand to hand without needing to be asked, and by the time they were sitting at the table and giving thanks her irritation had faded enough for her to be able to check what the womans name was. Michael said he didnt know. He hadnt asked, or she hadnt said, and the whole time she was there they only ever referred to her as this woman or the American woman or most of the time just a shorthanded her or she. When are you going to talk to her. Whats she doing here. How much longer is she going to stay.
The whole business should have been the final straw, Catherine thought.
The day after she arrived, the American woman went back to the hospital they knew this because she left a note in the hallway which said gone to hospital in thick capital letters and when she came back, early in the afternoon, she went straight up to the spare room without telling Michael what the result of her visit had been. The same thing happened, complete with a second note gone to hospital, again the day after that. On Sunday the woman stayed in her room all day, and when Catherine knocked on her door around suppertime she was met with a sudden taut silence, as if the woman had been pacing around and had now stopped, her breath held, listening. Catherine knocked again.
Who is it? the woman said. Whos there? This said suspiciously, almost aggressively. Catherine hesitated.
Its Catherine, she said. She half thought, since they hadnt been properly introduced, that she should add something like Michaels wife, or possibly even the vicars wife, for clarification. But she didnt. The American woman jerked the door open and stepped forwards, standing a little closer than Catherine would have liked, wearing the same mismatch of clothes shed been wearing when she arrived. She didnt say anything. She seemed to be waiting for Catherine to speak. It was infuriating, this misplaced sense of what was it, self-assurance? Self-possession?
We were just wondering if everything was okay, Catherine said. Speaking calmly, she hoped. We were wondering if you needed anything, she added. The woman seemed to relax slightly.
Im fine, she said. Thank you for asking.
Have you had any luck at the hospital? Catherine asked. With your documents and everything? The woman smiled.
Oh, you know what these places are like, she said, waving her hand dismissively; its all forms to fill out and papers to sign and documents to produce, its all just bureaucracy, isnt it?
Catherine looked at the woman, and noticed again how thin and pale she was. A little powder would have helped, a spot of colour, something around the eyes. She looked so drained. But she was probably the sort of woman who would disapprove of make-up.
Do you mind if I ask what your condition is exactly? Catherine said, speaking more abruptly than shed intended. The woman looked at her a moment, blinking fiercely, as if she had something in her eye.
Ill be going back there in the morning, she said, ignoring the question. Maybe I can resolve the matter then and be out of your way.
Oh? said Catherine. Do you know how long youll be? Because Michael and I will both be out until quite late. The woman smiled, and started to close the door.
Oh, no, she said, its okay. I can let myself in, thank you.
Catherine found Michael downstairs, sleeping in the armchair, and asked him if hed given the woman a key. He stirred slightly, and sections of the weekend paper slipped from his lap to the floor. Catherine repeated the question, and he opened one eye to look at her. It seemed like a good idea at the time, he said.
Which had reminded her, later, of the morning after the first night theyd spent together, and of him lying in bed with one eye open just like that, watching her dress. Because hed thought he was dreaming and didnt want to wake up, hed said. It hadnt looked like that, shed told him, buttoning her blouse and looking around the room for her stockings; it had looked more like he was spying on her. Shed loved him watching her like that, then. And you a man of the cloth as well. This said when the idea of him as a vicar was some kind of joke still, before he was ordained; before they were married even, although thered been some prevarication around that before, around whether they hadnt better wait, which theyd settled by deciding that engagement was a commitment in itself and they were as good as married in Gods eyes. She remembered their haste over dinner that night, once the decision had been made; barely tasting the food, barely even speaking, catching a bus back to his friends flat while most people were only just heading out for the night. And then the heat and hurry of first sex, collapsing all too soon under the weight of expectation. The realisation that this, after all, was something else which would have to be learnt, considered, practised.