‘I can walk with you.’
‘I’d really rather you didn’t.’
‘I gave you my card, I believe?’
‘You did.’
‘Well then. You probably need to know that I, too, am never off duty. I think this has the makings of a story.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘Not yet, Canon Chambers. But there soon will be. And when the story breaks you will want to tell me your side of it first.’
‘I am not sure that I will.’ Sidney replied tersely. ‘Good day to you, Miss Randall.’
He crossed Granta Place and headed up Eltisley Avenue and glanced up at Hildegard Staunton’s old house. He wished she were still there. He could have stopped off on the way home and listened to her play Bach. Now all he had was his bun from Fitzbillies.
He ate it as he walked across the Meadows. It was almost dark. A group of schoolboys were enjoying a snowball fight as people returned from work, bicycling along the high path with books, bags and shopping. Greeting people as they passed, Sidney had a simultaneous sense of belonging and alienation. These were, in the main, decent respectable people, and yet Sidney felt that he had little to do with them. He was detached, separated from their lives and their employment by his calling, by the university and by his dream-like daily musings. Normal life, simultaneously, had both everything and nothing to do with him.
When he returned home his dog scampered up to meet him. It was clear that he expected his master both to give him his full attention and to go straight back out again but the telephone in the hall was already ringing. Sidney had been hoping that he could heat the place up a bit and sit by the fire with some light reading but it was not to be. Who on earth could this be? he wondered as the telephone rang.
What fresh hell is this?
It was Amanda. ‘How is Dickens?’ she asked. Already, Sidney thought, her dog mattered more than he did.
‘How did you know he was called that?’ he replied.
‘I telephoned earlier and got Mrs Maguire. She tried to be polite but was really quite ratty. She thought I should come and get him and take him away.’
‘Dickens is quite a handful, Amanda.’
‘I bought him for that very purpose.’
‘Did you indeed . . .’
‘He’s there to take your mind off all the dreadful things that have been happening. You told me you were lonely.’
‘You asked me if I was lonely. That’s not quite the same thing.’
‘You answered in the affirmative and I have taken steps to address the situation. I thought it was rather thoughtful of me . . .’
‘It was Amanda, and I am grateful.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s perfectly well.’
‘You sound grumpy. Are you sure you are looking after him properly? When can I see him?’
‘You can come whenever you like.’
‘Good. You haven’t got the flu or anything like that?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Why do I ask?’ Amanda was almost shouting. ‘Because I don’t want you going to see that doctor.’
‘What has Mrs Maguire been saying?’
‘I am sure you can guess. She thinks that your doctor has been taking the law into his own hands.’
‘Nothing has been proved.’
‘But by the time it is, it will be too late. You need to be careful, Sidney. In crime stories the murderer is always the doctor. It’s why I no longer read Miss Christie. It’s always the bloody doctor.’
‘In
4.50 from Paddington
, yes,’ Sidney replied.
‘And there’s Dr Sheppard, of course, in
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
.’
‘But this is not fiction, Amanda. This is real life.’
‘I don’t want you doing anything silly.’
‘There’s not much chance of that. All my energy is being taken up with looking after your wretched Labrador.’
‘I’m sorry if you think that Dickens is too much for you,’ Amanda snapped. ‘I meant well. I’m sure I can find another home for him if you’d like. I was just trying to do my best and give you a companion. That’s all I was trying to do.’
‘I’m sorry, Amanda. It’s just that sometimes . . .’
His friend interrupted. ‘I’m worried you are so gloomy. Do you think it’s because it’s Lent? Or something else? Have you taken Dickens out for a walk today?’
‘Of course I have,’ Sidney replied defensively.
He wondered how much longer this conversation would continue. He had nothing to say and much to think about. Furthermore, he was standing in the cold hall. The windows had frosted completely, and on the inside. It was probably going to snow yet again. When, oh when, Sidney wondered, would it be spring?
Amanda was still talking. ‘Are you still there?’
Sidney had switched off. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I have to go. Henry is taking me out to dinner.’
‘Henry?’
‘I’ve told you about him.’
‘Have you?’
‘Of course I have. There’s nothing you need to worry about.’
‘But I do . . .’
‘Must dash. Don’t go to the doctor whatever you do. Love you.’
Sidney began to remonstrate but Amanda had already put down the receiver. He listened to the relentless sound of the dialling tone. There was nothing that could have matched his mood more exactly.
At last Easter came; the Maundy Thursday washing of feet, the three-hour meditation on Good Friday, the vigil on Saturday evening and then the triumphant alleluia of Easter Sunday. A wave of purple crocuses burst through the grass of the Grantchester Meadows to echo the message of Christian hope.
Sidney was determined that his parishioners should share the joy and redemption of Easter, and took, as the symbol of his sermon, the image of the cloth left in the cave where Jesus had lain. It had been folded rather than thrown away, Sidney told his congregation, a sign, according to the custom of the time, that he would return, to the table, to the meal and to the communion between God and man.
‘We are Easter people,’ he told the parishioners of Grantchester. ‘This is not one day out of three hundred and sixty-five, but the mainspring of our faith. We carry the Easter message each day of our lives, lives in which the pain of the Cross and the suffering of humanity are followed by the uncomprehended magnitude of the Resurrection.’
Sidney spoke with as much passion as he could muster but as he looked down from the pulpit he realised that he was not able to reach every parishioner. The elderly looked benevolent and grateful, but younger widows from the war carried a grief that could not be assuaged. Sidney stressed that God must be one with whom humanity’s pain and loneliness can identify, but he could tell that some of his parishioners could only look back at him and say, ‘Not this pain. Not this loneliness.’
He wished, once more, that he could be a better priest. He hoped he could bring comfort but there were times when he just had to understand that he could not be all things to all men. Sometimes he had to accept his limitations and take a few hours away from his duties and let life take its course. At least he now had the excuse of walking his Labrador.
This was not always an easy task. Sidney was no disciplinarian when it came to training and Dickens had to be frequently retrieved from hedges, ditches and, on one occasion, the river itself. His presence did, however, make social engagement with other dog owners more agreeable and Sidney had no choice but to leave his desk and get out into the surrounding countryside with a companion who was always loyal and never bored. No matter what Sidney did Dickens was keen to follow.
Sidney only wished that Amanda, the provider of such an unexpected gift to his life, could share some of her caring canine’s qualities.
On his return from an enjoyable, if rather breathless walk that Easter afternoon, Sidney was surprised to find the coroner at his front door. He was leaving some wine by the empty milk bottles.
‘I’m glad I’ve caught you,’ he exclaimed.
Dickens jumped up against the coroner’s knee.
‘Playful little fellow you’ve got there, I see . . .’
‘Somewhat too playful,’ Sidney apologised. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘That would be very kind.’
Sidney opened his front door and Dickens scampered in. ‘Do come in. May I take your coat?’
The coroner put down his bottle of wine on the hall table. ‘I brought you a small present for Easter, Canon Chambers.’
‘That’s very kind of you. It’s not an egg, I see.’
‘It most certainly isn’t. It’s a Bordeaux. Château-Latour 1937. Rather good, I think you’ll find.’
‘Oh my,’ said Sidney.
‘You are aware of the vintage?’
‘I’m not sure I am.’ Sidney filled his kettle with water and lit the gas ring. ‘I’m afraid I’m more of a beer man.’
‘You surprise me. I would have thought with all your college feasts you would be quite an oenophilist.’
‘I’m really more at home in the pub with my friends. I’m not all that fond of dining at high table.’
‘Why ever not?’
Sidney waited for the kettle to boil. ‘I think it’s because I don’t quite belong. A clergyman is always rather an odd one out. Perhaps it goes back to the last century when if a man had several sons then the eldest joined the army, the second ran the estate and the youngest and dimmest went into the church. I fear some of the Fellows still think that this is the case.’
‘They do make a great show of finding you intellectually inferior whoever you are. Which is all very well but while they may have brains they certainly don’t always have manners.’
‘Is that what you find?’
‘They are in a world of their own. Sometimes I think they can scarcely talk to each other, never mind their guests.’
Sidney warmed his teapot, added a sprinkle of leaves and then poured in the boiling water. ‘It has always surprised me that some Fellows don’t actually like their students.’
‘I think it’s because they want to be students themselves. They are envious of their youth and contemptuous of their intelligence.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite as strongly as that.’
‘I would, I am afraid. Do you know that line of Kierkegaard’s, Canon Chambers? “There are many people who reach their conclusions about life like schoolboys: they cheat their master by copying the answer out of a book without having worked the sum out for themselves.” ’
‘I certainly think that many of them prefer books to people. Do you take milk with your tea?’ Sidney asked.
‘Of course. But never in first . . .’
Sidney smiled. ‘I am not the kind of vicar who would do such a thing.’
‘I never suspected that you were; but it’s sometimes necessary to say so to avoid disaster.’
Sidney put the teacups on a tray that he had been given to commemorate the Coronation. ‘Shall we go through to the sitting room? It’s kind of you to bring the wine . . .’
The coroner looked at the bottle as if he was sad to say goodbye to it. ‘It’s meant as an apology, and as a thank you.’
‘I don’t think I need either of those. Do sit down.’
‘Actually you do, Canon Chambers. I was very brusque with you. I did not like you intruding.’
Sidney poured out the tea. ‘You made that very clear.’
‘But now I am grateful.’
‘I am not sure what I did to deserve this.’
‘You averted disaster, something rather more serious than putting milk in your tea first.’
Sidney handed his companion his cup and saucer. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Dr Robinson and his future wife . . .’
‘Oh, I don’t think I did anything there.’
‘I rather think that you did, Canon Chambers. I know you went to see Dr Robinson. I thought at the time that all of this was none of your business and I’m afraid I may have said so rather too strongly.’
‘I am used to people being frank with me, Mr Jarvis. Sugar?’
‘No thank you.’
‘There’s even some of Mrs Maguire’s shortbread.’
‘I feel you are distracting me.’
‘Please. Continue.’
‘It’s often hard to predict what people might do, don’t you find? I can see that Dr Robinson was acting within the boundaries of the law but I could also see that he was in danger of taking that same law into his own hands.’
‘The Anthony Bryant inquiry?’
‘Again, the quantity of morphine was just within acceptable limits. He was, as we suspected, bending the law rather than breaking it. But sometimes, and I have seen this before, people get into the habit. If Dr Robinson felt that he was performing a useful and compassionate service, and if he imagined that he was acting for a higher moral purpose, then perhaps he believed that he could carry on, take things further and justify what he was doing. I think that by intervening you stopped him doing anything more.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I think I do, Canon Chambers. It could have got out of control.’
‘Sidney, please . . .’
‘I think not. It doesn’t pay for a man to be too familiar with his priest. What you did, Canon Chambers, was to cut off any possibility that he could justify his actions. Your presence reminded him that there were God’s laws as well as man’s, and that even if he could explain his behaviour with a clear conscience on this earth then he might still be answerable to a stricter ethical power in the afterlife.’