Authors: Aline Templeton
‘
Take a few days off,’ she urged. ‘I really do need to get away for a bit, put all this behind me – ’
She
knew what he was going to say before he said it.
‘
That seems a bit extreme, don’t you think? You’ve got another couple of weeks before you go back to school; I’m sure you’ll feel much better after a good rest.’
‘
How can I rest here?’ she cried wildly, knowing she was doing her argument no good. ‘I can’t even
breathe
here.’
She
knew the signs of the irritation he seldom actually gave vent to, the tightening of the lips and the smoothing of his hand over his already smooth hair. He was clearly making an effort not to sound impatient.
‘
Laura, I know you felt your disappointment very keenly. But I wouldn’t be doing you any favours if I let you get it totally out of proportion. Everyone gets rejections from time to time, and you just have to put it behind you and get on with life.’
She
looked at him dumbly. How could she tell him the truth, that the pain of her rejection had long been eclipsed by the shadowy fear that was now her constant companion?
He
took her silence for acceptance. ‘You won’t even remember how badly you felt a week from now, I promise you. And really, it would be crazy to go away at the moment. Everywhere will be booked up, and anyway, we’re flat broke after Christmas. A whacking great overdraft wouldn’t do anything to relieve our levels of stress.’
He
laughed.
She
said, ‘Oh, if it’s
money
, of course, that settles it,’ with all the contempt she could muster and set off ahead of him down the hill, knowing she had not been entirely fair.
There
was something else Wordsworth had said; something a lot less comforting.
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,
And shares the nature of infinity.
***
Struggling to match her brother Robert’s longer stride, Margaret Moon returned from the Travers’s party that evening in a state of seething indignation.
She
might have known how it would be, of course, because it always was. People were always drawn to Robert, with his expression of cheerful tranquillity and his bow tie, and when they discovered that he was a psychologist, and a forensic psychologist at that, their fascination was often so unbridled as to be positively embarrassing. By the end of the party this evening, people were confiding in him, she was sure, the innermost secrets of their existence.
She
herself had wasted an hour and a half of what was left of her life in a succession of conversations of mind-numbing triviality, and her temper had not been improved by the number of people who came up and said, ‘I’ve just been having such an interesting conversation with your brother,’ before asking her if she was going to manage to get away for a break now that the stresses of Christmas were over.
She
had tried hard to remind herself that she was a priest and that they were her flock. She had tried to banish from her mind the telling image of the rich man, the camel and the needle’s eye. But she needed to talk to somebody.
Not
being High Church, she found the notion of the confessional uncomfortable, and in any case she wasn’t ready to confess her faults. She was still at the stage of being unconvinced that the fault was hers, in any case, which was an unchristian, if human, point of view. What she wanted was to sound off, and Robert’s discretion was unimpeachable.
With
her own front door safely closed behind them, she burst out, ‘Don’t you hate it? Don’t you hate all that silly superficial chat, and those sleek pampered people, and the expensive drinks and the smoked salmon that isn’t even a treat any more?’
Pausing
only to dislodge Pyewacket, Robert sank down in Margaret’s favourite chair.
‘
No,’ he said, having considered the matter with his usual thoroughness. ‘If I’m to be honest, I rather like expensive drink and smoked salmon. So do you, of course, only you’ve convinced yourself that under these circumstances you shouldn’t.
‘B
ut even if it is ethically correct to frown on luxuries which are taken for granted, you should have the intellectual rigour to distinguish between not liking and disapproving. You wouldn’t seriously claim to like mushy peas with vinegar, despite their impeccable working-class antecedents.’
Gathering
up the affronted Pyewacket, Margaret sat down in the harder chair opposite and glared at him.
‘
You’re nit-picking, Robert. Of course I’m not hypocritical enough to suggest that I don’t appreciate delicious little canapes and champagne. Most people can afford to smoke, if they’re stupid enough to want to, or have a night at the pub, and if I would rather have the occasional nibble of smoked salmon or a decent bottle of wine, I haven’t any hang-ups about doing it. The water at the wedding in Cana wasn’t turned into cheap plonk, after all.
‘B
ut you know perfectly well what I’m really talking about – the naked materialism, the smugness…’
‘
Smugness,’ he repeated, as if tasting the word. ‘Smugness?’
Pyewacket,
to Margaret’s annoyance, jumped off her lap, crossed the room and leaped up, purring, to push his head under Robert’s hand.
‘
Wouldn’t you say they were smug? Safe in their pretty, cosy little world, no real worries…’
He
scratched the cat expertly in the sensitive area behind his ear, and Pyewacket’s purr rose to ecstatic pitch.
‘
I’m surprised, I must say, to hear you describe them as smug. You’ve always struck me as an intelligent and sensitive woman, and it’s not like you to permit prejudice to cloud your judgement.’
She
snorted, but he carried on, indeflectably.
‘
If you want my own impression – ’
‘
If you’re going to tell me they’re open-hearted models of social concern, I shall probably kick you.’
‘
Not that, no. But it did seem to me that the place was crackling with nervous tension. There were several people whom, if I had seen professionally, I would have assessed as being close to dysfunctional. There were some very unhealthy cross-currents in the conversations, too. Quite nasty, I thought, and claustrophobic rather than cosy. I am not, as you know, a fanciful man, but when we left I felt as if I were running for cover before the storm actually broke.’
She
glared at him. ‘Do me a favour! Nervous tension? Whatever have they got to be nervous about? Whether it will have to be Cava instead of champagne at their next party, and what people will say if it is? They could try just being grateful they don’t have to wonder where their next meal is coming from.’
‘
And tell me, vicar, are you grateful to the Bishop for giving you such a nice comfortable berth without any of the problems you’ve had to cope with in the inner city?’
‘
Well, of course not,’ she said crossly. ‘I do have rather higher aspirations for what I want out of life than mere material comfort –’
She
stopped.
‘
All right, Robert. All right, don’t say it. Just don’t say, “And they haven’t?” or I shall tip that vase of jasmine over Pyewacket and he’ll scratch you instead of fawning upon you in that contemptible way.’
He
grinned. ‘That’s better. Your behaviour isn’t usually so maladaptive. Perhaps you ought to consider finding out exactly why.’
‘
Oh no you don’t. You may be a distinguished shrink, but you’re not going to start mucking about with my psyche. You may not believe in prayer and meditation, but then I don’t believe in transactional analysis. I’ll sort myself out in my own way.
‘
But come on, you can’t stop there. What horrors have you uncovered in my parish which I in my blindness have ignored?’
He
considered. ‘It’s tricky to attempt to give you chapter and verse, especially since a lot of the time I didn’t even know who I was talking to. But there was one young woman – Lizzie, was it? – with a classic victim profile, and a nurse showing definite symptoms of paranoia. She seemed to be using aggression to cope with stress, which isn’t the wisest method.’
‘
Suzanne Bolton?’
‘
Possibly. But in general, there was a lot of observable alienation. I found myself in one group where I was the only person who didn’t have my arms folded like a barrier across my chest. And it’s Christmas week; they can’t take refuge in work or shopping or the school run. When things go wrong in a close community, they go very wrong, because the damage is so intimate and there’s no escape.’
‘
Flight or fight.’
‘
Exactly. One of the most basic of animal instincts. And when the flight alternative isn’t available, things can get primitive, and to be brutally honest, I think it’s heading that way. You may find yourself with quite a job on your hands, even though it’s a bit more subtle than the sort of work you’ve been indulging yourself with. Quite as challenging, you know, in its way.’
Margaret
sighed.’Well, I like to think you’re being alarmist, but in principle you’re probably right. Do you never think it might be nice to be wrong for a change?’
‘
Not really, no.’
‘
You don’t look pretty when you’re smirking. But I must say I’m intrigued that you picked up an unpleasant atmosphere. I had put my own unease down to regrettable social prejudices. And yes, I shall regard them with clearer eyes.’
‘
Good. I think you’ll find there are some very troubled souls, if you can manage to get through to them. And could I suggest that I think it might be a matter of some urgency?’
Margaret
pulled a sceptical face. ‘What are they going to do – nice middle-class proper people? They’re hardly likely to run amuck, you know – it’s not the sort of Thing One Does. But I’m certainly interested that you mentioned Elizabeth McEvoy. I had noticed that she looked pretty worn down much of the time, and that husband of hers is a horror. Perhaps I could make a start there, get to know her a little better – ’
‘
There you are, you see? You’re beginning to cheer up, now that you’ve got the scent of a problem. I never knew anyone so shamelessly addicted to stress. Pyewacket and I,’ he stroked the furry circle of cat on his knee, ‘can’t understand it at all.’
She
pulled a childish face at him and went to cook supper. It was true, she did feel buoyed up and encouraged by the suggestion of a challenge. Perhaps God and the Bishop (why did that seem such an unlikely conjunction?) had a task in mind for her after all, perhaps this was a community crying out for what she had to give.
She
went to bed thinking about what Robert had said. He was no fool; if he had smelt trouble, then trouble somewhere there must be. But even so, she was unprepared for the ugly little surprise in the post next morning.
It was just before seven o’clock in the morning when the cream Series 7 BMW purred to a standstill on the road on the far side of the common. It was still dark; a damp, dreary morning with patches of mist hanging about the black mass of trees which lined the path back to the village.
The
driver switched off the headlamps without putting on the courtesy light inside, and peered out through the side window across the scrubby grass. There was just light enough from the cold glare of the village streetlamps to see anything that was moving, but all was still.
Piers
McEvoy was not a patient man. He swore, thumping the leather cover of the steering wheel, consulted his Rolex, flicked the switch of the radio on, then after an exclamation about the leftist rubbish being spouted by some bint who called herself a political analyst, flicked it off again. He took another impatient look out, and this time was rewarded.
A
lithe figure in tracksuit and trainers was running up the path towards him, moving with a brisk, easy, athletic stride.
‘
About time too,’ he grumbled under his breath, then pressed the button which would lower the window.
She
was close enough for him to see her clearly now, long wavy hair switching from side to side, and the palest sheen of effort glistening on her skin. Her tracksuit, dark violet velour, had the big ornamental zip at the neck pulled some little way down, the pale V of flesh creamy against the dark fabric.
He
felt desire stirring. God, she was sexy! Incredible to find something like this lying around – or perhaps, given that he was talking about Hayley, laying around – in Stretton Noble, and even more remarkably, carrying a torch for him.
‘
Hi!’ she called as she reached the car. ‘Is it warm in there? It’s damn cold out here.’
She
was breathing a little faster than usual, but she certainly wasn’t in the least out of breath.