‘As elegant as expected,’ Sidney said, as Amanda stepped off the train. She was wearing a tailored camel coat and carried a chestnut-coloured Gladstone bag.
‘I’ve decided to simplify my wardrobe: lilac in town and brown in the country. It makes life so much easier,’ she said.
‘This is hardly the country . . .’
‘Oh Sidney, Cambridge is not London. You may kiss me.’ She stretched out her cheek. ‘Where are we lunching?’ she asked
‘We are going to the Garden House Hotel,’ he announced. ‘I hope it will do.’
‘Then lead on.’
Sidney kept to the outside of the pavement and pushed his bicycle as they walked to the restaurant. As he did so, Amanda told him how extraordinary it was that she had got through the snow at all. She had got talking to a farmer called Harding Redmond who had been complaining on the way up how the turnips in the fields on his farm had rotted, how the ewes had so little milk and the lambs were dying. It was so distressing, she said. His wife bred Labradors and was so worried about a recent litter that she had refused to leave home until she knew that they were safe from the cold.
Sidney asked about the National Gallery and Amanda told him that she was beginning to do the research for a monograph on the paintings of Hans Holbein the Younger. There was, she said, so much more to discover about the cultural life of the court of Henry VIII: the drama, the art and the music, that she felt a whole world was opening up before her. Perhaps they could go to Hampton Court in the summer together?
Sidney told her that would be delightful and replied with parish news, the gossip at Corpus and the arrival of Leonard Graham.
‘Has he shaved off his moustache?’ Amanda asked.
‘Indeed he has. And he is all the better for it.’
‘Such a business at the Thompsons,’ Amanda continued. ‘Poor old Daphne . . .’
‘And poor old you.’
‘I can never forgive myself for that awful mess with Guy Hopkins.’
‘He was a very attractive man.’
‘And an absolute brute.’
They arrived at the hotel, handed in their hats and coats and were shown straight to their table.
‘To think that it took me so long to notice that Guy was appalling,’ Amanda continued. ‘I’ve quite lost my sense of judgement. I was so distracted by a handsome man with prospects that I forgot to think what it might be like to be married to him. Could you tell as soon as you met him?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say.’
‘That means you could . . .’
‘Not necessarily, Amanda. I never spoke to him privately or with the two of you alone.’
‘But that is what you do before a marriage, isn’t it? And that’s partly why I’ve come. I wanted to ask that if it ever happens again, and I do become engaged, that I can come and see you and talk about it?’
‘Of course. Do you have someone in mind?’
‘Not yet. But there are possibilities.’
‘And will I be the first to know?’
‘After Jennifer, of course. I can hardly keep things secret from my flatmate.’
‘How is she?’
‘You mean you want to know about Johnny Johnson? They are just friends, you know.’
‘I rather admire Johnny Johnson.’
‘And so do I, Sidney. Surely in this day and age we can have friendships with the opposite sex without worrying about what it all means. I am sure you have plenty of female friends . . .’
‘Not like you, Amanda.’
‘I should hope not. I wouldn’t want to be a duplicate.’
‘There is no one in the world like you, Amanda, I can promise you that.’
‘Oh, I am sure that in the Russian Revolution, or in the French for that matter, I would have been shot with all the other posh girls. But I have to be careful now. I’m worried that when men make an approach they may have ulterior motives.’
‘Well, you’re quite a catch.’
‘Oh, Sidney, you say the sweetest things. But there are times when I just can’t be sure of the motives of the men I like.’
‘An occupational hazard, I would have thought.’
The waitress arrived with herrings fried in oatmeal but Amanda was in full flow. ‘Don’t priests undertake to counsel people when they are thinking of getting married? What kind of things do you say to them? And can you sometimes tell that the whole thing is going to be a disaster from the start? I bet you can.’
‘That’s quite a lot of questions, Amanda.’
‘I have more. I want to know everything. How in love do you have to be, for example? Can you tell if it is enough and can you marry if you still have doubts? Does it matter if your parents approve or not? Is it important that your husband has money? Do you have to be of the same social standing? What do you do if there is one aspect of your future husband’s personality that you can’t stand? Can people change once they are married? All those kinds of things.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sidney as he started on his herring. ‘You cannot anticipate everything. But, at the time, I think you have to be unable to imagine the alternative. I think you have to think that it is impossible to live without someone.’
‘But you live without someone.’
‘It is different in my case. I live with my faith. What I mean is that it has to be impossible to imagine living without the person you love.’
‘But what if you can’t find that person? So many people I know seem to settle for second best.’
‘Do you know that, Amanda? They may only seem second best to you. And love can be about more than attraction. I sometimes think it is more a question of sanctuary, a case of unassailable friendship.’
‘Have you known that?’
‘Not quite,’ Sidney replied. ‘Not yet . . .’
The waitress removed their plates from the table and returned with pork chops and apple sauce. Sidney had not anticipated such close questioning and found Amanda’s tone almost confrontational. It was hard to give thoughtful answers to her volley of direct questions.
‘Is it lonely being a priest?’ Amanda continued.
‘Sometimes . . .’
‘When is it at its worst?’
‘Now, I suppose.’
‘You mean at this table?’
‘No, of course not, I don’t mean that at all,’ Sidney blushed, although he did feel out of his depth. ‘I think it is when there is a small congregation on a cold February day in the middle of Lent, for example. I feel these waves of depression coming over me. The numbers of the faithful are dwindling, Amanda, and sometimes there is nothing I can do to encourage them. It’s like Matthew Arnold’s great poem “Dover Beach”. I feel the melancholy roar of the withdrawing tide. . . .’
‘Then I only hope you have not been diving into any more murky waters,’ Amanda replied.
‘Sometimes the murky waters come to me. . . .’
Amanda put down her knife and fork. ‘I’m so sorry. I have been talking about myself so much that it has taken me a little time to realise. Forgive me. It is clear that something is troubling you.’
Sidney sighed. He wondered whether he should speak openly but he was too preoccupied not to do so. ‘I am afraid that it is.’
‘Tell me . . .’
‘This may not be the place to discuss it.’
‘No one is listening.’
‘An elderly lady has died.’
‘Nothing unusual in that, I would have thought.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘Then what are you worried about?’
‘It is extremely confidential, Amanda. I should not be telling you anything at all.’
‘But you are anxious?’
‘I am. My doctor has come under suspicion.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘This is a very delicate matter.’
‘I don’t know him, do I?’
‘No, Amanda, you do not.’
‘Then do not tell me his name. Has he been negligent?’
Sidney stopped. He knew that he should not be confiding in Amanda but he could not help himself. ‘It’s thought that he may have hastened her death.’
‘And why would he do that?’
‘So that he could marry the daughter without her mother’s blessing.’
‘Couldn’t they just wait?’
‘Apparently not. She was a tough old bird.’
Amanda returned to her meal. ‘Almost as tough as these pork chops, I imagine. Has your inspector friend got on to the case?’
‘He has. We both feel rather uncomfortable.’
‘So it is either a medical act of mercy or something altogether more sinister?’
Sidney began to wish he had not raised this subject but it was too late. ‘I am not sure the daughter was involved.’
‘Well, there is one reason that the mother could have disapproved,’ Amanda continued. ‘Although I can’t see why it makes much difference in this day and age . . .’
‘And that is?’
‘Oh Sidney, how could you be so dim? She’s obviously with child.’
‘
Of course
,
’ Sidney thought to himself. How could he have been so slow?
‘If her mother dies before the pregnancy is obvious then they are in the clear; not that they needed to worry that much in the first place. There was nothing else stopping them marrying, I imagine . . .’
‘I think Isabel wanted to do the right thing by her mother . . .’
‘Isabel? You are on first-name terms with a potential murderer?’
‘She is not a murderer, Amanda. She is a woman who has been bullied all her life who has now found late-flowering love.’
‘And so her wishes have come true.’
‘Love is something to celebrate, Amanda.’
‘You never thought of marrying her yourself?’
‘Now you are teasing me . . .’
‘Is she attractive?’
‘She is. But she is not, of course, as attractive as you.’
‘Oh Sidney,’ Amanda leaned forward and placed her hand on his. ‘I can rely on you to say the right thing. You have such perfect manners too. I wish my London admirers would follow suit.’
The waitress returned with a jam roly-poly and Amanda withdrew her hand.
‘I think we should be careful what we wish for,’ Sidney replied as calmly as he could. ‘Sometimes, even when our prayers are answered, there is an ironic twist that we could never have anticipated.’
‘Well, let me pay for lunch, Sidney, there’s a twist to begin with.’
‘I don’t think I can let you do that, Amanda.’
‘What rot. I think I shall always pay. It will make everything easier . . .’
‘Amanda . . .’
‘Don’t be silly, Sidney. Think of it as a down payment against future marriage guidance. There will probably be rather a lot of it.’
At the beginning of March the snows began to melt and slide off the roofs, taking both shoppers and cyclists by surprise. Hawks hovered over the Meadows, and further out of town, in the fields around Grantchester, the farmers were able to plough and sow at last.
This was the hope of spring. Students unbuttoned their duffel coats and loosened their college scarves, children played football by the river and the first winter hyacinths began to appear in front windows.
Leonard Graham had settled in to one of the upper rooms of the vicarage. Sidney was happy to delegate duties, instruct him in the responsibilities of the ministry and let him preach sermons on the tensions between Kantian and Utilitarian ethics as often as he liked, providing he was kind to Mrs Maguire and was not impatient with those parishioners who had been spared a university education.
‘Natural wisdom,’ he told Leonard, ‘cannot always be found in books.’
‘I agree,’ his curate replied, ‘but to be naturally wise and then to read books gives you even more of an advantage.’
‘Over what?’ Sidney asked.
‘You think I am going to say “other people”, don’t you, Sidney, but that’s not what I mean at all. Reading gives you an advantage over life and time.’
‘I am aware of that,’ Sidney replied tersely.
‘You can travel through history, converse with the dead and live multiple lives . . .’
Sidney thought it sounded exhausting but his curate was unstoppable.
‘That is how I spend my free time,’ he continued. ‘I look to those who have lived before me in order to learn more about how to live now.’
‘I wish I had the opportunity to do that,’ Sidney replied. ‘But, alas, I do not.’
He knew that he was sounding pompous but he was distracted. He was waiting for the results of the coroner’s inquest. He still had not quite managed to pin down why Derek Jarvis unsettled him so much. He had thought that it was the black and white nature of his morality and the brisk efficiency with which he operated. But it might also be the fact that he was jealous. Sidney allowed his parishioners so much more time and so much more of a say when they were discussing their problems and their fears than the coroner ever did with his corpses. It was not that he resented this time, but sometimes he wished he could cut his meetings shorter and resolve the issues with which people came with more clarity. Perhaps, Sidney considered, he could even learn something from the coroner’s manner?