A Passionate Man (19 page)

He crossed to the kitchen door.

‘I've got a few calls, I won't be long.'

‘Granny Mossop?' Liza said unkindly, to punish him for his persistent unacceptance of Marina.

Archie paused, his hand on the doorknob. He seemed about to say something noisy, but then he changed his mind and said in a perfectly normal voice, ‘I sent Granny Mossop into hospital two days ago.'

‘Oh, good, good—'

‘Not good,' Archie said. ‘She won't speak to me. Or the nurses.' He looked at the children. ‘Into bed, you lot. Or You Know Who'll never come.'

Abruptly, Imogen remembered.

‘Chrithmath!'

She went scuttling up the stairs, squealing like a piglet.

Colin Jenkins disliked Christmas. At Christmas and Easter, he was quite unable to control the parish, which took the bit between its teeth and plunged into the festivals with a lavishness which Colin felt was both wrong in itself and mainly attributable to the materialism of the present government. Chrissie had, as usual, declared the over-excitement of the parish not to be her responsibility.

‘Sorry, dear, but it really isn't my business. I've done my organizing. I did it in November. What with Mother and the hospital, I've got my work cut out as it is. You should just put your foot down. Really you should.'

The interior of the church was flagrant proof that he had not. It was crammed with as much decoration as it could hold: windowsills furred with pine branches, pillars wound with ribbons, pedestals in every corner bearing explosive arrangements of greenery and scarlet silk poinsettias, six inches across, bought by Mrs Betts from her wholesalers in Southampton. From the chancel arch a gold cardboard star spun on a chain of tinsel, and, below the lectern, illuminated by miniature electric light bulbs rigged up by Lynne Tyler's husband, stood the Sunday School crib, the cast only lacking the three kings, who lay in a shoebox in the vestry, awaiting Twelfth Night.

It not only irritated Colin to see the church turned into some ceremonial garden centre, but also to see it full of people who never came to church otherwise. They'd come at Christmas because it was quite jolly; they would telephone for wedding or funeral or christening arrangements in the faintly imperious manner of people booking holidays; they were full of inflexible theories about the way vicars – and, even more, vicars' wives – should live their lives, but any suggestion that they might use the church for its regular and intended purpose caused indignation and resentment. When he was a young man, Colin had once been so stirred by a speech given by Bishop Trevor Huddlestone that he had, for at least a month, determined to become a missionary. Christmas at Stoke Stratton made him regret with particular energy his failure to keep that resolve.

He expressed his disapproval by refusing to dress up for Christmas. They could have him simply in a surplice and black stole, and, if he stuck out like a sore thumb in all the gaudy nonsense, so much the better. Maybe that would get the message home. The church, of course, was packed, from the Jagos in the front pew with their two languid daughters tossing sweeps of blonded brown hair from their faces, to Lynne and Robbie Tyler at the back with their brood of children and a clutch of aunts and grans. Mrs Betts, who believed God to be primarily the President of the Women's Institute, wore a fancy tweed coat with matching hat, and was accompanied by a daughter and a son-in-law so suitable in dress and demeanour that they might have been designed for her, as fashion accessories.

About halfway down, sandwiched between pews full of Christmas strangers staying in the village, Liza, Archie and Clare had penned the children between them. Archie was not on call again until Boxing Day, but his morning of Christmas freedom had begun at ten past four when Imogen had appeared, covered in chocolate and strenuously wishing to play post offices. By nine o'clock, the day had felt already done to death, and when Clare appeared at ten-thirty, in time for church, both Liza and Archie had fallen upon her like castaways sighting a sail. Clare, who could not help drawing comfort from other people's misfortunes, was heartened at the sight of them and began to feel a dim glow of appropriate enthusiasm. Anything, after all, was better than waking alone to a silent city that was bound to be full, just bound to be, of blissful couples in bed together, opening stockings crammed with sentimental, intimate jokes.

Liza was wearing a cream jersey that Clare knew, after she had hugged her, was cashmere, It was from Marina. So was the beautiful brown snake belt she had on, and the computer games for the boys and the princess dressing-up clothes for Imogen and – what for Archie?

‘A rod,' he said, gesturing towards it. ‘A trout rod.'

‘But it's a beauty!'

‘Yes,' he said flatly. ‘Far too much.'

Liza seized Clare's arm and mouthed silence. In the kitchen, alone for a moment, she had shown Clare a tiny box with a garnet-and-pearl pin in it, a heart on a golden bar.

‘Who's it from?'

‘Shhh. Guess.'

‘No,' Clare said, eyes enormous.

‘Yes. Silly ass. I shall give it straight back.'

‘It's awfully pretty.'

Liza put the box back in the kitchen drawer. The card that had come with the box lay under the drawer's lining paper.

‘What did Archie give you?'

‘A picture. A Victorian watercolour of the Stoke river.'

‘It sounds lovely!'

‘It's sweet,' Liza said, thinking of the garnet pin.

Archie had been very kind to Clare. He had made her coffee and talked to her all the way down to church and given her Thomas to sit next to. Above the carols, and the readings, delivered at top-speed in an incomprehensible scream by the older members of the Sunday School, Clare could hear Imogen's intermittent grizzling. She was not the only one. Dotted around the congregation, the child victims of Christmas hype whined and fidgeted. Clare, without responsibility for any of them and pleased to be in this comfortable, celebratory, unspiritual gathering, briefly felt quite happy.

But for all that, she could not help perceiving that Archie was not. Finely tuned as she was to notice every quiver on the seismograph of her own feelings, Clare had become morbidly sensitive to atmosphere. Archie was smiling certainly. He sang the carols, admonished Mikey for wriggling, glanced with affection at Liza, at his children, at Clare. But he was not happy. Just below the surface, Clare thought, lay some trouble, manifesting itself in glimmers of tension and defensiveness. She worried that it was Blaise. It was not reasonable to worry about Blaise, she told herself, but instinctively it was not to be avoided. Liza had said someone in the village had upset Archie. Could it be that? Or could it be that Liza's new little manner with him, a kind of condescending little manner, thinly masking a sizeable impatience at his attitude to his father's marriage, was affecting him more deeply than anyone suspected? Oh dear, Clare thought, how awful, how interesting, how consoling. Should she say anything about Blaise? Heavens! Should she?

Thomas seized his
Songs of Praise
and riffled through it officiously.

‘“Hark the Herald”,' he hissed. ‘There you are. Seventy-four.'

Two days before the New Year, Sir Andrew and Marina came home. They had a horrible flight, they said, delayed and rough, and Sir Andrew was feeling a bit battered by it, but all they needed was a good night's sleep and they would be down, as planned, on New Year's Eve.

Archie was on duty throughout the New Year. When Liza had suggested asking his father and Marina, he had said do, yes, do, with unexceptionable enthusiasm, but of course I shall be in and out a lot. That did not seem to Liza to matter. Indeed, it might be easier to have only his intermittent presence for the first staying visit. She, on the other hand, was excited about it. She and Sally cleaned the spare room, and she put on new white linen pillowcases and sheets with embroidered hems. She made lists of meals and, as she did it, imagined how warm Marina would be in her praise of them.

Early on the morning of New Year's Eve, the telephone rang. Liza, thinking it would be a patient, picked it up preparing to say that Dr Logan was already at the health centre.

‘Liza—'

‘Marina!'

‘My dear,' Marina said. ‘Liza. I've called – I'm so sorry, but I've called—'

Her voice sounded light and faint.

‘Marina,' Liza said, alarmed. ‘What is it, what has happened?'

‘Forgive me. It's a little difficult. One moment—'

There was a pause.

Then Marina said, ‘Liza. Dear, I'm afraid I have to tell you that Andrew is dead.'

Chapter Ten

Stuart Campbell, senior partner in the practice, was very delicate with Archie. He had met Sir Andrew himself a couple of times, and had felt admiration for him both professionally and privately. He also felt that Archie could have gone much further and faster in his own career if only he had chosen to, and had said to his wife, once or twice, that Sir Andrew's fame inhibited his son. So, while he wished to condole most seriously with Archie, he also felt his junior partner's life might now begin to blossom. Archie, after all, he repeatedly told colleagues exasperated by Archie's impulsiveness or forgetfulness, had the human touch.

Dr Campbell's habits were stately. He was in his late fifties and enjoyed the image of an old-fashioned rural general practitioner, invariably tweed suited, comfortable in farm kitchens, regarding the weather from the exclusive point of view of a fisherman. Grey summer days, to Stuart Campbell, were good days, because they cast no shadows on the water. When he spoke to his colleagues, he liked to summon them magisterially into his own room at the health centre and speak to them, very genially of course, from the far side of his desk. The other doctors sat the same side of their desks as their patients. They said it inspired confidence. Stuart Campbell said it did precisely the reverse.

He did not, however, summon Archie to him, but went instead to find him after surgery. Archie was scribbling notes in his immense black hand but stopped as Stuart came in, and instinctively rose, like a schoolboy. Stuart waved a hand.

‘My dear fellow—'

He put the hand on Archie's shoulder.

‘You have all my sympathy. Betty's, too. A great shock.'

Archie, though drawn, looked perfectly composed.

‘Thank you.'

‘Wonderful life,' Stuart Campbell said, removing his hand. ‘Wonderful to know how much you've done in life, how much you've given. I feel very privileged to have met him.'

‘Thank you,' Archie said. ‘Thank you for coming in.'

‘My dear boy. It's the very least – And of course if there's anything at all that any of us can do, here, you've only to say the word.'

Archie gave a small sigh.

‘There's very little to do, actually. Being my father, everything is in apple-pie order.'

‘If you want more time off—'

‘No,' Archie said quickly. ‘No thank you. I shan't want that.'

‘I thought perhaps your stepmother might like—'

Archie looked down.

‘She's a very independent woman.' He looked up again and gave a little smile. ‘I'm sure she'll make her own decisions.'

‘Yes. Yes, of course.'

He paused. Then he put his hands in his trouser pockets and said, ‘Coronary, I suppose?'

‘Complete occlusion. No previous symptoms beyond tiredness after a long flight the day before.'

‘Archie,' Stuart Campbell said with more energy. ‘Archie, don't hold out.' He took his hands out of his trouser pockets and gripped Archie's arm. ‘Sometimes, as you know as well as I do, it's easier to let go in front of someone whom you do not have to protect, like your wife. And I'd understand, my dear fellow, heavens, I would.'

Archie gazed at him.

‘I'm a clumsy fool,' Stuart said. ‘Spoken far too soon. Betty always says I've the tact of a rhino.'

‘No,' Archie said. ‘You could not be kinder. Really. And I'm so grateful. But I'm all right. Very sad, of course, but perfectly all right.'

‘I don't like it,' Stuart Campbell said later to his wife. ‘I don't like the look of him.'

Betty Campbell, who considered Archie a man oversized in every direction, said she thought it was a mercy he hadn't broken down. It never helped for a man to weep, anyway. Stuart was about to protest, and then recollected that Betty and her partner had lost at their weekly bridge four, and refrained. When her next remark turned out to be, ‘And don't you go meddling. There's no-one like doctors for interfering,' he was glad he had.

The next day, in the post office, he met Liza. She was looking pretty but subdued and the elder boy was with her. Stuart waited until they had bought the stamps and writing paper they had come in for – Mrs Betts, heavy with genteel condolence, served Liza as if she were an invalid – and then he ushered her back into the lane to say, ‘I do hope you'll let me know if there's anything we can do. We can fill in for Archie between us, you know. And there's always such a mountain of paperwork at such times.'

Liza turned to him gratefully. Large, easy, unthreatening men like Stuart Campbell brought out all that was sweetest and most female in her.

‘You are so kind. But I don't think he wants anything to be different. It's his way of coping. And his stepmother is amazing: so brave, so competent.' She looked up at Stuart. ‘They had only been married three weeks. A month ago on Friday. I can't bear it.'

Thomas, beside her, was again apprehensive, and then certain, that he would cry. He shuffled sideways and glared into the bare twigs of the hedge, where litter had blown and hung like grimy rags. The tears rose and the rags blurred and quivered.