Sidney Chambers and The Problem of Evil (The Grantchester Mysteries) (28 page)

‘You’ve been distracted.’

‘I’m always distracted.’

‘I know.’

‘But not so much that I can’t take in momentous news.’

Hildegard tugged his arm. ‘I hope you’re pleased?’

‘There are no words.’

‘None?’

‘Nothing that can do justice to this moment.’

Sidney’s wife took a little step backwards and then gave him a playful punch on his right shoulder. ‘So that is yes?’

‘I never thought it possible. I don’t know what to say.’

She smiled. ‘“Thank you” would be a good idea perhaps? Or “Well done”. Or “Aren’t we lucky?”’

‘It’s more than any of those. It’s more than anything I can say.’

‘Then, hold me.’

‘I owe you the world.’

‘I don’t need the world, Sidney,’ Hildegard replied. ‘I just need you.’

Christmas, 1963

In late November, Sidney attended the funeral of C.S. Lewis at Holy Trinity Church, Oxford. The great Christian thinker had died four days earlier, but the news of his death had been overshadowed by the assassination of President Kennedy on the same day.

Sidney had brought a copy of
Surprised by Joy
to read on the train and his thoughts were much possessed by death. He sat next to a former tutor who was disturbed that so many of his friends and former colleagues were dying. The old don was finding it hard to live in Christian hope and the general trajectory of his thoughts was retrospective rather than anticipatory. He had recently met his first wife in a pub for a drink and he had expected, foolishly and romantically, that they might speak about the love that they had once shared and what might have been had they stayed together, but instead they had talked about growing deaf, their arthritis, and how much time they had left on earth.

‘Old age strips life of its poetry,’ the man said.

Sidney wondered how much that was true. The transience of life had always made him determined to enjoy the youth he still had left in him; appreciating each day as it came and counterbalancing the future threat of death by living as vigorously and cheerfully as he could.

Soon it would be Christmas, and this year it would not only be a celebration of Christ’s arrival into the pain and darkness of the world, but the moment when Sidney’s first child was to be born. This advent he was going to find it so much easier to imagine himself into the nativity scene at Bethlehem; the night on which the Christ child stood for all children and all humanity, when the word of God became flesh and dwelt among us.

He had no doubts about Hildegard’s talents as a mother but was anxious about his own paternal potential. He wanted to talk to his father about it and remembered his own childhood as he thought about the questions he might ask his parents and the advice he might seek. He called to mind the natural authority they had displayed in their provision of a home. It was a place in which there may have been anxiety about health, money and, above all, war, but where love had been unconditional.

How had his parents achieved this? He wondered.

They had been exemplary. Sidney had never seen his father drunk or heard him swear. He had always answered his telephone calls cheerfully no matter how busy he was (‘Ah, Sidney, how good to hear your voice!’) and they had ease in each other’s company, particularly when watching cricket. Now, Sidney thought, he had to step up to the wicket himself. He had to play with a straight bat, cover the field, anticipating danger and alert to unpredictability, ready for the first and most important delivery of his life.

Duty had called him to the funeral of C.S. Lewis but he made only the briefest of appearances at the wake. Although the baby was not due for a few more weeks, Sidney didn’t like leaving Hildegard alone for any period of time and certainly not overnight. He looked out of the train window at the encroaching winter darkness and told himself firmly that he had been absent from home, pursuing ridiculous crimes, for long enough. All he wanted was the safe haven of the vicarage and the consolation of his wife’s company.

Preparations had been made for Advent Sunday and Hildegard had decorated their home in the German tradition. She insisted that Sidney fill his shoes with hay and carrots for the coming of St Nicholas. She placed a wreath on the table with four red candles, and made sure that each morning they opened the Advent Calendar her mother had sent: a snowy German street scene dusted with glitter.

Hildegard cooked with determined enthusiasm throughout her late pregnancy, perhaps hoping that all that energy spent standing, mixing and stirring would encourage the baby to arrive in good time for Christmas, perfectly formed and beautiful, just like the
Stollenbröd
and gingerbread men she made or the Hansel and Gretel cake with white icing which she studded with Smarties for the Sunday School party.

She baked frosted biscuits in the shapes of stars and half-moons which she hung from the Christmas tree with red ribbon. Sidney loved coming home to see his wife’s industrial organisation as she kneaded the dough for the
Vanillekipferl
, beat egg whites until they were glossy, and mixed in hazelnuts, cinnamon and zest for the
Zimtsterne
. She made loaves of sweetbread, filled cakes with candied fruits, warmed brown sugar, honey, molasses and butter for her
Lebkuchen
, and created gingerbread snowmen as treats for the children’s concert. Despite the rain and the daytime darkness, the vicarage kitchen was warm, light and filled with the smell of baking. This was his own home at last, Sidney thought. He was no longer a child who needed to return to his mother to feel safe at Christmas. He and his wife were creating something new, a sanctuary ready to welcome its new addition.

Hildegard sang as she prepared their meals; German folk songs, carols, snatches of Bach. She showed few signs of stress. Only occasionally did she lose her composure: when Sidney dithered around her, for example, half-heartedly offering to help while plainly hoping to be let off any household chores; or when, it seemed, he was almost deliberately getting in the way; or at other times when lady parishioners of a certain age made unannounced visits and implied that they had a special, private, understanding with the vicar that Hildegard, as a foreigner, could not hope to appreciate. She became especially on edge when the Archdeacon called in for sherry after evensong and pointed out that their Christmas tree wasn’t straight. Sidney had to move swiftly to her defence.

‘I think you’ll find that it’s not crooked if you are in the main body of the room,’ Sidney explained patiently. ‘It’s rather like life. It all depends on the way in which you look at it.’

Then the fairy lights would fuse, and Hildegard would almost snap, saying that all she wanted was for everything to
work
, and for her husband to replace the faulty bulbs when they broke and not wait for God magically to turn them on again.

Consequently Sidney would get down on his hands and knees and sort out the lights and try and straighten the tree without knocking it over and quietly retire to his study until the next meal.

He made Hildegard cups of tea first thing in the morning and mugs of cocoa before they went to bed. He kissed her on the back of the neck unexpectedly when she was at the piano or in the kitchen. He gave her as much affection as he could, and he told her frequently that he loved her. The couple privately acknowledged that they were more anxious about the baby than they were prepared to say out loud, as if admitting their fears might jinx the birth.

The grandmothers-to-be had both been knitting for their respective countries. Hildegard’s mother, Sibilla Leber, had sent a package of cardigans, mittens, booties and baby outfits from the DDR in socialist red, thereby avoiding the pink or blue conundrum. Iris Chambers had bought a second-hand Moses basket and lined it in tactfully chosen lemon-yellow sprigged muslin with a prodigious number of ribbons and bows. She had also crocheted a reversible shell blanket in innocent white. The due date was 15th December, and Sidney had been careful not to say anything about the additional Christmas parish duties he would have to attend, knowing that first babies could often be late, hoping and, truth be told, praying, for the safety of a Boxing Day arrival.

Hildegard diligently attended antenatal classes and saw her doctor more regularly than other mothers-to-be might do because, now in her late thirties, she was considerably older than young parishioners like Abigail Redmond (a mere stripling at twenty-two who was also pregnant and proud). It was felt that Hildegard needed closer monitoring and a little extra attention.

As they waited, the couple enjoyed talking about what their child might be called. Sidney favoured the name of an apostle for a boy (Mark, Luke and James) and a Shakespearean heroine for a girl (Rosalind, Viola, Imogen or Miranda). Hildegard held out for Christian names that would work equally well in German (Frank, Paul, Max, Thomas; Anna, Julie, Stephanie, Sophie) but was prepared to compromise with James or Imogen. She would know exactly which name would be the right one immediately she saw the child, she said.

Hildegard was worried about hers being unflatteringly termed a ‘geriatric pregnancy’ but some of the younger mums-to-be were so insouciant about their impending births she found their lack of nerves rubbed off on her and gave her confidence. Abigail Redmond was particularly sympathetic, and when her baby boy was born prematurely, weighing in at just over five pounds, Sidney made a point of going to see her in hospital: both as a pastoral visit to thank her for her kindness to his wife and to get an idea of what lay in store for him in the all-too-immediate future.

He had an uneasy relationship with the Redmond family. Agatha Redmond, the matriarch, organised the flowers in the church and was a well-respected dog breeder who had supplied him with his beloved, and now much lamented, Labrador. For some reason that had never been explained, most of the female members of the family had names beginning with the letter ‘A’. Abigail, the new mother, was Agatha’s daughter with a colourful past which had involved a liaison with a photographer who had burned down his own studio, and then a brief affair with the local garage mechanic who had failed in his attempt to become a pop star. She was currently the paramour of Colin Sampson, the wayward son of the local solicitor.

Abigail was sitting up in bed in Addenbrooke’s Hospital, her mother was by her side holding the baby, while the new father seized the opportunity provided by Sidney’s visit to take a fag break. They bumped into one another in the corridor leading to the ward. ‘You don’t mind me nipping off now you’re here, do you, Vicar? This isn’t really the best place for blokes and I’m meeting some mates in the pub to wet the baby’s head. Just as well the little nipper came at the weekend. I can’t miss work.’

Sidney touched the man’s arm in a gesture of solidarity. ‘You must be very proud,’ he said.

‘Well, Vicar, it was an accident, to tell you the truth. We got carried away; and with a girl like Abi, well, once you start you don’t want to stop.’

‘I think I can imagine.’

‘I’m sure you can, Vicar. She told me you were keen on her yourself once. Is that true?’

‘No, it is not,’ Sidney replied firmly.

‘Not that it matters. She’s my girl now. I hear your old woman’s up the duff and all.’

‘She’s not old.’

‘Abi made us laugh when she told us about her being pregnant
.
.
. said she’s about old enough to be her mum.’

Even Colin saw that the conversation was not going well and adjusted accordingly. ‘But she was very kind to our Abi at the antenatal class, I’ll say that for her. How long are you stopping?’

‘I thought I’d just offer a prayer and a bit of support.’

‘I’m not sure she needs that, really. Although people have got a bit panicky, to tell you the truth. I think it’s because he was premature. The nurses keep taking him away for tests but he looks all right to me. That’s why I’m off; I won’t be long.’ Colin did not wait for an answer.

Sidney entered the ward and looked at the small, red-faced baby in Mrs Redmond’s arms. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ she said. ‘Look at his tiny toes and fingers.’

He inspected the roseate figure in detail, putting his finger gently in the child’s palm, and was immediately touched and moved when the small fist trustingly clenched around it. He smiled and turned to the new mother. ‘You must be very relieved, Abigail. Are you very tired?’

‘Yes I am, Canon Chambers, and they’re keeping me in for another week.’

‘I suppose they need to make sure everything is in order.’

‘It hurt to buggery.’

Her mother was aghast. ‘Abigail
.
.
.’

‘He’s not shocked, Mum. He was in the army. You can say anything to Canon Chambers.’

‘Not quite anything,’ Sidney answered carefully. ‘But I am glad that all is well.’

‘It wasn’t what I was expecting, to be honest, but I suppose if doctors told us the truth most of us wouldn’t bother going through with it all. At least it’s over now.’

‘Although with a child I don’t think anything is really over. You are at the beginning of something wonderful.’

‘It doesn’t feel like it.’

‘But it’s why we live,’ Sidney continued. ‘This child is the meaning of why we are here; the creation of new life that will continue when we are no more.’