Lamplight in the Shadows (12 page)

‘I went to a seminar for potential ordinands. It was held in York Minster and had some very good speakers.'

‘That does seem to be a lot of religion in one day,' remarked Charles, his eyebrows raised in astonishment. ‘Especially on your birthday.'

‘Well, no, not really,' began James. ‘When you understand that I—'

He was interrupted by a loud snort from Janice, who, still clutching her wine glass, had difficulty in keeping upright in her seat.

‘He wants to be a sodding priest.'

The silence was tangible as everyone took on board the twin revelations that their newest partner had previously unknown aspirations of an ecclesiastical nature and, the more surprising, the fact that his wife was what could be described in no other way than drunk.

Tom spoke first. ‘Well, that just about blows the third conversational taboo.'

Once again, Mary tried to tactfully soften the tone of the moment. ‘Is that true, James? You want to be a priest?'

‘Yes, quite true,' he replied, taking a wary glance in Janice's direction. ‘It is something very close to my heart.'

‘More than I am,' came the slurred riposte from Janice.

Another awkward silence followed before Ian decided it was time to take the lead. ‘Well, my dear, interesting though this is, I think I might skip coffee. I never can sleep after drinking the stuff. Perhaps it is time to make tracks?' He rose from his seat and offered an arm to his wife. ‘It has been an excellent evening, Tom. Great idea. We look forward to the next one.'

‘Sorry, James. I'd love to hear all about it another time.' Mary rose and accepted her husband's arm. ‘Goodnight everyone.'

Once the McGarvas had departed, the remaining diners sat in silence for a few moments, trying to ignore the fact that Janice was now slumped over the table, fast asleep.

Susan broke the silence. ‘What star sign was Janice born under?'

‘Libra,' answered James, not quite knowing how to react to the embarrassing scene in front of him.

‘Hmm, I thought so.' The response had an air of superiority. ‘Not at all compatible, are you?'

It was a question to which the answer was all too publicly evident.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?'

The words, softly spoken, weaved themselves into his far-away thoughts and gently brought him back to the present. He glanced up at the mirror in front of the washbasin and saw the reflection of Anna standing by the consulting room door.

‘How long have you been standing there?'

‘Long enough to know that you have spent more than six minutes absent-mindedly washing your hands.'

James looked down at the basin, pulled the plug and watched as the soapy water spiralled down the drain. It was a poignant analogy of the past hour or so he had spent in the wreckage of a red mini, his fight to resuscitate the young female driver becoming increasingly desperate by the minute as her life ebbed away from them both until, irrevocably, it was gone.

Even now, he could recall the look of hopelessness in the eyes of the paramedics as they also reluctantly accepted defeat. Clambering from the wreckage, a shake of the head was all that was needed for the leading fire officer to know that his men were being handed the thankless task of extricating a corpse. The fact that she was dead was dispiriting to them all. However, James knew from experience that they would perform their professional duty with the same degree of care and tenderness as if she had still been alive. They would take as long as was needed to preserve as much as possible so that her next of kin – her husband, her parents, her brother – would still have something recognisable as the person they loved, when it came to the need to positively identify her.

For a moment, he struggled to blink back the tears as they fought their way to the surface. He had no idea as to her name. He tried to tell himself that she was just another anonymous casualty who meant nothing to him on a personal basis. However, that was just it; for a brief period, she
had
meant something to him; she had been his patient, whose very life depended on him. As with the web of human interactions so aptly depicted by Thomas Hardy in
The Woodlanders
, fate had for one brief moment caused their paths to cross. He reacted to the best of his ability. However, his best had not been good enough. It was yet another cruel and wasteful loss of a young life. It did not matter how many times he witnessed similar scenes; they did not get any easier.

Stepping into the room, Anna passed him a towel and surveyed the debris on the floor. A large green backpack lay open, its contents in disarray. Discarded wrappers for various medical items lay scattered amongst a profusion of used plastic tubing, cannulas, airways, surgical gloves and bags of intravenous fluids. A set of green overalls, clearly soiled by the events of the morning, lay in a heap next to a pair of discarded safety boots.

‘Was it bad?' The question, once spoken, seemed superfluous.

‘She couldn't have been more than twenty.'

Anna waited, saying nothing.

‘A lorry turned in front of her. She drove straight into the side of its trailer; opened the roof of the car like a tin of sardines. Undoubtedly, she had massive internal injuries… but… if only…' His voice trailed off and he swallowed hard.

Again, Anna waited.

‘If only… the two saddest words of the English language.' He pursed his lips and glanced at his emergency kit on the floor.

‘You shouldn't get so close.'

‘I can't help it. It's always been the same; but then again, perhaps that's good?' He raised a contemplative eyebrow. ‘I can remember one of my old medical school tutors once saying that the day a doctor stops caring is the day he should stop practising medicine. I'm sure he was right.' James dried his hands and replaced the towel on the radiator. Rubbing his eyes, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Is anyone waiting to be seen?'

‘No. Three re-booked for this afternoon and the other four were seen by Dr Carey.'

‘Thanks. I'd better get on and tidy this lot up.' He started towards the backpack.

‘Why not ask one of the nurses to do it? I think Sandra is still in Treatment Room One. If it is not too melodramatic, you look like you could do with a cup of tea.'

He gave a wry smile. ‘Good idea. A gin and tonic would be better.'

‘I'm afraid the NHS doesn't run to that.'

‘In that case the tea wouldn't go amiss.'

‘Fine. You find Sandra; I'll go and put the kettle on.' Anna turned and left the room, leaving him yet again staring wonderingly at her retreating figure. She was the only person he knew who seemed to empathise with him in such an effortless way. On the other hand, was it just his imagination? He shrugged… whatever; she was spoken for and so was he; so, it did not really matter much either way. Donning his suit jacket, he checked his tie in the mirror and then went in search of Sandra.

Ten minutes later, upstairs in the staff room, James picked up an old newspaper and scanned the front-page articles. They were all discussing the events of the past month since the liberation of Kuwait City and the subsequent ceasefire in the Gulf.

‘It all makes life seem so futile.' He tossed the paper back onto the coffee table. ‘Where is God in all this?' He gesticulated towards the news headlines. ‘And why did He let that young woman die this morning? What's that all about? Are such actions really those of a God who cares?'

‘Surely these are questions you ought to know the answer to above everyone else?'

‘Why me?'

‘Because it's you who wants to be a priest.'

Anna sat watching him from across the room and saw his expression of exasperation turn to one of puzzlement.

‘How do you know I want to be a priest?'

‘Christine was telling everyone in reception. Evidently, she was at an aerobics class with someone called Belinda Marsh, who said she had been at a Valentine's dinner with you all last month.'

James winced at the memory.

‘She had all sorts of interesting things to say. I should think half of the surrounding villages know by now that your marriage is on the rocks.'

‘Is that what she said?'

‘More or less.'

He grimaced again.

‘Is it true?'

‘Which bit?'

‘The bit about becoming a priest.'

Coming from Anna, the question somehow unsettled him. He sipped on his tea as if to buy time before finally answering, ‘Yes, it is.' He watched closely for any reaction. Only another question was forthcoming.

‘Why?'

There was silence as he turned the enquiry over in his mind. He had often reflected on this very topic. It was the same question the Archdeacon had asked him, and the Reverend Ewing before that. It was a question to which he could never quite find a satisfactory answer that would please everyone, least of all himself.

‘I'm not certain that I can give you a straightforward reason. I don't think I ever made a conscious decision to become a priest. It is something that has slowly and spontaneously developed from within me. I suppose some would say that it is a calling.' He put his mug down and absent-mindedly fingered his crucifix through his shirt, his gaze roaming towards the panorama of trees and sky visible from the staff room window. ‘All I do know is that it is an idea that refuses to go away. It constantly burns inside me with a fervour that makes it impossible to ignore. It is like a yearning that is incessantly pulling at my heart; forever tugging at my soul. That is how I would best describe it… a relentless yearning.'

‘How very poetic.'

‘You're laughing at me.' His eyes shot away from the trees and back to Anna.

‘No, I am not.'

If her neutral expression could be so interpreted, then it was true; she was not mocking him. He relaxed slightly. ‘Then what are you thinking?'

‘That you're running away.'

‘From what?'

‘From your loneliness.'

Yet again, he felt taken by surprise by Anna's intuition. ‘Is that what you think I am… lonely?'

‘No, I don't think so. I
know
so.'

Anna's eyes locked with his as he studied her in silence.

‘What makes you so sure of yourself?'

‘Like Belinda Marsh says, your marriage is on the rocks.'

‘Perhaps I don't see it quite like that.'

‘Perhaps you don't want to face up to the truth. The fact is you are running away from a lonely marriage and seeking companionship within the Church.'

‘What makes you so sure that my marriage is failing?'

‘You have more or less said so yourself. Anyway, Janice's antics last Christmas and at the Valentine's dinner weren't exactly those of a loving wife.'

‘You seem to think you understand a lot about me.'

‘I think I understand you a great deal better than you do yourself.'

Check mate
, thought James, silently studying his inquisitor. Unflinchingly, she met his gaze. Beyond a slight sparkle in her eyes, her face remained inscrutable.

‘Summer is y-comen in, Loudé sing, cuckoo!'

The door to the reception was flung open with enthusiasm, causing it to bounce off the rubber doorstop and setting the glass partitions vibrating in the process. Simultaneously, Ian McGarva's baritone voice filled the office with an off-key rendition of the medieval folk-song.

‘My goodness, Dr McGarva,' exclaimed Christine, collecting a fallen set of notes. ‘Whatever's got into you? You gave us quite a shock!'

‘If you do that too often, we'll be able to sue you for work-related stress,' Alison contributed. ‘You will join in with us, won't you, Anna? We could set up one of those things the solicitors call a gang action.'

‘I think you mean a group action,' replied Anna, laughing. ‘I am not so sure about the stress bit. If he continues to sing like that, we could report him to the European Court of Human Rights on the grounds of inflicted torture.'

‘The next thing we'll know, he'll be coming to work dressed in a morris dancer's costume,' chuckled Christine, giving a quick impersonation of a folk-dance. ‘With little bells around his ankle.'

The receptionists dissolved into collective shrieks of laughter as they imagined Ian McGarva cavorting around the waiting room.

‘You'll need one of those big sticks, Dr McGarva,' said Alison, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘You know, those things they wave in the air and hit against the next person's. What's the proper name for them?'

From the back of the reception, Tom and James, having paused from their task of signing a heap of repeat prescriptions, looked on with amusement.

‘Furkins,' said Tom.

‘Furkins? Are you sure?' laughed Anna, leaning against a desk for support.

‘Absolutely,' affirmed Tom. ‘Each time a dancer gets accidentally hit he turns to the other dancer and says “oy, that furkin hurt!”'

Laughter again filled the office, causing one or two patients in the waiting room to look inquisitively towards the reception.

‘I don't think any of you are taking me seriously,' continued Ian McGarva. ‘Here am I, heralding the coming of summer and all you can do is stand there—'

‘Trying to imagine a Scotsman dressed as a morris dancer,' interjected James with a wide grin.

‘Precisely. The ultimate insult, James; the ultimate insult.' Dr McGarva shook his head in a display of mock sadness. ‘Actually,' he continued, brightening up. ‘It is you I came to see.' He strolled across the room and handed over a small card. ‘Beckside Court are holding an Edwardian Garden Party in the grounds of the nursing home and want you to go and open it.'

‘Why me?' The puzzlement in his voice reflected his facial expression.

‘Oh, we all know you are quite the favourite there.'

‘Am I?'

‘Absolutely. No doubt about it.'

James opened the card and read the contents.

The matron, staff and residents of Beckside Court warmly invite you to open their Edwardian Garden Party at 2 p.m. on 29
^th
June 1991.

R.S.V.P.

‘I am sure you will do a grand job and represent the surgery well,' exclaimed Dr McGarva, walking back towards the door. ‘Have fun! These opportunities do not come our way often.' He paused to throw a crumpled envelope into the bin, before leaving in a manner as exuberant as his former entry.

‘Summer is y-comen in, Loudé sing, cuckoo!'

The glass partition again vibrated as the door slammed shut behind him.

‘I suspect,' said Tom, reaching into the waste-paper basket and retrieving the envelope, ‘that if I know Ian well enough, then it is you who is the cuckoo, James.' He smoothed out the creases and passed the envelope to his youngest partner. ‘Do read it aloud.'

‘Dr Ian McGarva – Private and Personal,' groaned James. ‘He's fobbed it off onto me!'

‘Just as I suspected! You'll learn, lad,' chuckled Tom in reply. ‘As Ian said, I am sure you'll do a good job. You'll look good in a straw boater!'

* * *

‘No.'

The answer was what he had come to expect. It had been the same back in the spring when he had suggested that Janice might join him on a trip to Bempton in North Yorkshire.

Ornithology had long been an interest for James and he had been a member of the RSPB ever since childhood. On the northeast coast, Bempton Cliffs were renowned for their breeding colonies of seabirds. Each year, enormous numbers of gannets, kittiwakes, black-headed gulls, herring gulls, and even a smattering of puffins, to name but a few species, gathered there to nest. He was keen to see this local spectacle of nature and was not deterred by Janice's reluctance to join him. He, alone, had finally taken a couple of days' annual leave at the beginning of May.

On the first of those two days, rather like a prelude to the main event, he had driven to Spurn Point, a narrow peninsula of land in East Yorkshire, jutting out into the Humber Estuary. There he spent an enjoyable day walking and bird watching amongst the sand dunes.

The following day he drove up to Bempton Cliffs and was not disappointed by the outcome. If the truth was told, he enjoyed those two days without the distracting presence of Janice.

* * *

‘No.'

Janice's answer in the negative was the same reply as that given when he had asked whether she would like to accompany him to open the garden party at Beckside Court Nursing Home. Not, he had agreed, that it was likely to be the most entertaining of Saturday afternoons. However, it was an opportunity, or so he thought, for her to be seen in Bishopsworth in support of her husband. After all, he told her, people in rural communities like to know who the doctor's wife is. The spouse of a country GP takes on an importance of her own, rather like being the vicar's wife. Janice thought otherwise and James had therefore duly presented himself alone on the appointed Saturday afternoon.

After a few quick words of introduction, which, by virtue of deafness, senility or a mixture of both, went largely unnoticed by the majority of the residents, he had cut the yellow ribbon strung between the tombola stall and the soft drinks table and declared the 1991 Beckside Court Garden Party open.

Thereafter, he had briefly spoken to the nursing home staff, acknowledged one or two of the more alert residents, bought a strip of raffle tickets for a basket of fruit, won from the tombola a knitted crinoline doll (of the variety he had often seen adorning the spare toilet roll in his grandmother's bathroom) and purchased a jar of homemade chutney. Duty done, he made his escape, vowing not to fall for any more of Ian McGarva's tricks, senior partner or not.

James had spent the rest of the afternoon walking along the Humber foreshore, enjoying the warm June sunshine and the peaceful sound of the lapping water. Moments of such glorious solitude were increasingly rare and something he treasured. They gave him time to think without any structure to the thoughts so produced. At such times, his mind spontaneously ran in whichever direction it wanted to lead him, occasionally taking refuge in bouts of total blankness, as though the entire cerebral process of thinking had been slipped into a neutral gear and was merely idling on tick-over.

On that particular afternoon, he stood on the northern edge of Lincolnshire looking across the Humber River towards the southern boundary of East Yorkshire and wondered at how the geography so closely reflected the topography of his current life. Two counties separated by the wide expanse of the waters of the Humber but loosely held together by the thin ribbon of the Humber Bridge. In his mind, he pictured Bishopsworth and Barminster, two market towns in two different counties. The two very distinct halves of his existence. In one was his medical practice, in the other his marriage and home. The Humber Bridge once again served as the physical connection between the two.
But how tenuous,
he wondered,
is the spiritual link that bonds them together?

He sat down on the grassy bank. As he did so, his mind slipped into neutral, as though refusing to accept the difficult psychological terrain it was asked to negotiate. Instead, he watched as a small yacht languidly tacked across the grey waters. A flock of waders fed at the very edge of the mudflats, their feathers giving off flashes of white as they moved in the bright sunshine. They were too far away for James to positively identify them. He lay back on the grass and stared at the clear blue sky.
Why could life not be this simple all the time? No stress, no uncertainties, no difficult decisions, and no conflict of desires. Just a harmonious, peaceful existence. Such, perhaps, was the substance of a monastic existence,
he pondered. Maybe the religious brothers had the right answer: cloistered away from the secular world, devoted to the worship of God. He smiled.
A life of celibacy?
No, that was not his ideal way of life either.

* * *

‘No.'

It was an evening in early July and they were sitting in the small back garden of their house in Barminster. The air was warm and, despite the time being near to nine o'clock, bees were still humming around the flower borders.

Although the answer was that which he had come to expect, the rejection of his latest proposition was perhaps the hardest to understand. He knew that Janice had some annual leave available to her. With that in mind, he had voiced the belief that a week off within the summer would be good for them both. It was a belief unshared.

‘If we are not going abroad, then I want to save my leave until Christmas.'

‘And spend it in Shropshire with your family?' The very thought made James inwardly cringe.

‘Yes.'

James watched the glowing tip of her cigarette change from orange to red as she drew deeply on it, the ash on the end considerably lengthening in the process.

‘But we could spend the time together – just the two of us – whilst the weather is good. We can look at a few of the local attractions that we haven't yet found the time to tackle. We keep promising ourselves that we will go to them.'

‘Such as?' A long plume of bluish-grey smoke followed the question as, with lips pursed, she exhaled into the evening air.

‘I don't know offhand, there are so many; we could decide on the detail later. The point is that some quality time together might do us both good.'

‘I'd rather go abroad.'

‘To simply lie on a beach for a week.' It was a statement, not a question. Janice answered, nonetheless.

‘Yes.'

‘Which is hardly exciting.'

‘Neither is your idea of walking around lots of ruins.'

‘Oh come on. Archaeology is fascinating if you allow it to be. With a bit of imagination you can really bring the past to life.'

‘Maybe it works for you. I would prefer the beach.'

He studied her half-turned back, noting the crossed legs and left arm held across her body. It was becoming her habitual posture when in his company. Only the cigarette in her right hand kept her from tightly folding her arms.
Just what would Freud make of this?

‘Ok, I accept that. Nevertheless, why are we arguing about something that is not going to happen this year? We decided months ago that we are not going abroad this August. Let's just take a week and tour some of the places in England we haven't yet been to.'

‘Like some National Trust houses?' Janice's sneer reflected the tone of her voice. ‘They are nearly as boring as the ruins.'

‘We don't have to. I can make many other suggestions. Why don't you come up with a few of your own and we can put them all into the pot?'

‘Forget it, James, I'd rather go to Shropshire at Christmas.' She flicked her cigarette stub onto the earth, where it lay smouldering.

‘But I am unable to take a whole week off from the practice at Christmas. You know that.'

‘Then I will go alone and you can join us for Christmas Day.'

‘I can't persuade you otherwise?'

‘No.'

‘Well, I need to use my leave up sometime, so I may as well take a week in August anyway.'

‘Do as you like, I'm not particularly bothered,' she replied, taking another cigarette from the packet beside her.

A dozen or so swifts flew high above their heads, their shrill calls piercing the evening calm as they hunted for insects. James followed their darting flight, fascinated by the way a slight twitch of their blade-like wings could send them sharply off in a completely different direction. He envied their freedom.

‘Do you still love me?' It was a question he had not planned to ask. It just bubbled to the surface of his mind and flew from his tongue before he had a chance to weigh up the possible repercussions. He glanced towards Janice and waited whilst she exhaled yet another long plume of bluish smoke. Idly, part of his brain wondered whether the swifts enjoyed smoked insects, just as he enjoyed smoked salmon.

‘I think so. At least some of the time I do, and some of the time I don't. Most of the time I don't know what I think.' She glanced sideways towards her husband and then, just as quickly, looked away again. ‘I suppose the answer ought to have been a simple “yes”.'

‘I always prefer an honest answer, even if the truth hurts a little.'

‘What about you? Do you still—'

From within the house, the sound of a telephone ringing interrupted her question.

‘I'll get it.' James stood and walked indoors, somewhat relieved at not having to find a way of answering his own question when fired back at him. Being truthful was easy, but only if he was sure of the right answer. In respect to Janice, he simply was not sure what he felt anymore. Which, so it seemed from Janice's own reply, made two of them.

‘Dr Armstrong speaking.' The caller's voice was instantly recognisable. ‘Ah, hello. Yes, I will just call her. Janice, it's…', but there was no need as she had followed him in. She took the receiver from him, covering the mouthpiece with one hand as she did so.