The Judgement of Strangers

Vanessa said, ‘Is that – is that yours?’

‘No – he belongs to Audrey, in fact – the person who wrote the book.’

‘Oh.’ She looked relieved. ‘My mother was afraid of cats. She was always going on about how insanitary they were. How they brought germs into the house, as well as the things they caught.’ She glanced sideways at me. ‘Do you think these things can be hereditary?’

‘Phobias?’

‘Oh, it’s not a phobia. I just don’t particularly like them. In fact, that one’s rather dapper. It looks as though he’s wearing evening dress.’

She was right. The cat was black, except for a triangular patch of white at the throat and more white on the paws. As we watched, he opened his mouth, a pink-and-white cavern, and miaowed, the sound reaching us through the open fanlight of the window.

‘He’s called Lord Peter,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘As in Dorothy L. Sayers. Audrey reads a lot of detective stories. His predecessor was called Poirot. And before him, there were two others – before my time: one was called Brown after Father Brown, and the first of the line was Sherlock.’

‘I can’t say I have much time for detective stories.’

‘Nor do I.’

I repressed the uncharitable memory of the time that Audrey had lent me Sayers’s The Nine Tailors, on the grounds that it was not only great literature but also contained a wonderfully convincing portrait of a vicar. I stood up, went to the window and waved at Lord Peter, trying to shoo him away. I did not dislike cats in general, but I disliked this one. His constant intrusions irritated me, and I blamed him for the strong feline stench in my garage. Ignoring my wave, he miaowed once more. It occurred to me that I felt about Lord Peter as I often felt about Audrey: that she was ceaselessly trying to encroach on our privacy at the Vicarage.

‘David?’

I turned back to Vanessa, ripe and lovely, looking up at me from the sofa. ‘What is it?’

‘To go back to – to Ronnie. It’s just – it’s just that I’m not sure I’m the right person to marry a clergyman.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not a regular churchgoer. I don’t even know if I believe in God.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, knowing that it did, though not perhaps in the way she thought. ‘In any case, belief in God comes in many forms.’

‘But his parish, the bishop –’

‘I am sure Ronald thought of all that. I don’t mean to pry, but surely it came up when he asked you to marry him?’

She nodded. ‘He said that God would find a way.’

There was a silence. Lord Peter rubbed his furry body against the glass and I wanted to throw the ashtray at him. I felt a rush of anger towards Ronald, joining the other emotions which were swirling round the sitting room. If I stayed here, they would suck me down.

I moved to the door. ‘I’ll make the coffee. I won’t be a moment.’

I slipped out of the room without giving her time to answer. In the hall I discovered that my forehead was damp with sweat. The house seemed airless, a redbrick coffin with too few windows. I went into the kitchen and opened the back door. While I was waiting for the kettle to boil I stared at my shrunken garden.

It was then that the idea slithered like a snake into my mind, showing itself openly for the first time: if anyone was going to marry Vanessa Forde, why shouldn’t it be me?

6

Vanessa did not linger over coffee. It was as if she were suddenly desperate to leave. We made no arrangement to see each other again. During the afternoon, I called at Tudor Cottage and relayed her opinion of The History of Roth to its author. Audrey’s reaction surprised me.

‘But what do you think, David?’

‘I think Vanessa’s opinion is worth taking seriously. After all, it’s her job. And it’s true that The History of Roth is rather short for a book.’

‘Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps it would be simpler to have it privately printed. And then we wouldn’t have to share the profits with the publisher. I wonder how much it would cost?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you mind asking Mrs Forde on my behalf? I’d feel a little awkward doing it myself. I haven’t even met her.’

Audrey continued to play the unwitting Cupid. After discussing the pros and cons exhaustively with me, she entrusted Royston and Forde with the job of printing The History of Roth. Audrey asked me to – in her words – ‘see it through the press’ for her. The typescript provided a reason for Vanessa and me to see each other without commitment on the one hand or guilt on the other; she was doing her job and I was helping a friend. We spent several evenings editing the book, and several more proofreading it. Usually we worked at her flat.

Vanessa cooked me meals on two occasions. Once I took her out to a restaurant in Richmond to repay her hospitality. I remember a candle in a wax-covered Chianti bottle, its flame doubled and dancing in her eyes, a red-and-white checked tablecloth and plates of gently steaming spaghetti bolognese.

‘It’s a shame there’s not more material about Francis Youlgreave,’ she said on that evening. ‘And why’s Audrey so keen to avoid giving offence?’

Because she’s a prude and a snob. I said, ‘When she was growing up, the Youlgreaves were the local grandees.’

‘So you had to treat even their black sheep with respect? That may have been true once, but does she need to be so coy now?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s her book, I suppose.’

‘I’ve been rereading Francis’s poems. He’d be an interesting subject for a PhD. Or even a biography. Now that would be commercial.’

‘Warts and all?’

Vanessa grinned across the table. ‘If you took away the warts, you wouldn’t have much left. Nothing interesting, anyway.’

There was no element of deception about our meetings. Vanessa never mentioned Ronald, and nor did I. I assumed that an engagement was no longer on the cards. The Trasks knew that Vanessa and I were working together on The History of Roth. What Cynthia thought about it, I did not know; but Ronald took it in his stride.

‘And how’s the book coming along?’ he asked me at one of the committee meetings he so frequently convened. He smiled, and his white teeth twinkled at me. ‘Vanessa’s told me all about it. I’m grateful, actually. She’s seeing another clergyman in a secular context, as it were. It’s so easy for lay people to assume we’re all dog collars and pious sentiments.’

When two people work together towards a shared goal, it can create a powerful sense of intimacy. Vanessa and I did not hurry, and at least the little book benefited from the attention we lavished on it. It was a happy time because we discovered that many of our tastes coincided – books, paintings, humour. Being a parish priest can be a lonely job, and her friendship became precious to me. Two months later, by the middle of November 1969, I decided to ask Vanessa to marry me.

It was not a decision I reached hastily, or rashly. It seemed to me that there was a host of reasons in favour. Vanessa was an intelligent and cultivated woman, a pleasure to be with. I was lonely. Rosemary would benefit from having an older woman in the family. The Vicarage needed the warmth Vanessa could bring to it. The wife of a parish priest can act as her husband’s eyes and ears. Last but not least, I urgently wanted to go to bed with Vanessa.

I was very calm. How things had altered, I thought smugly, since I had last considered marriage. Before proposing to Vanessa, I discussed my intentions with my spiritual director, Peter Hudson. He was an old friend who had helped me cope in those dark days after I left Rosington.

Peter was a few years older than I and was now a suffragan bishop in the neighbouring diocese of Oxford. At that time, he lived in Reading, which meant I could easily drive over and see him.

The Hudsons had a modern house on an estate. Peter’s wife June welcomed me with a kiss, gave each of us a cup of coffee and shooed us upstairs to his little study. The atmosphere was foggy with pipe smoke.

‘You’re looking well,’ he said to me. ‘Better than I’ve seen you for some time.’

‘I’m feeling better.’

‘What do you want to talk about?’

‘I’m thinking of getting married again.’

Peter was in the act of lighting his pipe. He cocked an eye at me through the smoke. ‘I see.’

‘Her name’s Vanessa Forde. She’s a widow, and a partner in a small publishing company in Richmond. She’s thirty-nine.’

Smoke billowed from the pipe, but Peter said nothing. He was a small, sturdily built man who carried too much surplus fat. His plump face was soft-skinned and relatively unlined, with heavy eyebrows sprouting anarchically like twin tangles of barbed wire. He was the only person in the world who knew how ill suited I was to celibacy.

‘Tell me more.’

I told him how I had met Vanessa and how working on The History of Roth had brought us together. I outlined my reasons for asking her to marry me.

‘I realize it must seem selfish of me,’ I said, ‘but I know she doesn’t want to marry Ronald. And I honestly think I could make her happy. And she could make me happy, for that matter.’

‘Do you love her?’

‘Of course I do. I’m not pretending it’s a grand passion – I’m middle-aged, for heaven’s sake. But there’s love, nonetheless, and liking, shared interests, affection –’

‘And sexual attraction, at least on your side.’

‘Yes – and why not? Surely that’s one of the purposes of marriage?’

‘You’re not allowing that to warp your judgement? Ten years is a long time. The pressure can build up.’

I thought of Peter’s comfortable wife and wondered briefly if the pressure had ever built up in their marriage. ‘I’m making allowances for that.’

We sat in silence for a moment. The sound of the television filtered up the stairs.

‘Other things worry me,’ he said at last. ‘It seems that there’s a very real danger that this will cause trouble between you and Ronald Trask.’

‘She and Ronald were never engaged.’

‘That’s not the point, David.’

‘He misunderstood the situation completely. One could even argue that he took advantage of her emotional vulnerability after Charles’s death. Unconsciously, of course.’

‘Unlike you?’

‘I’m not proposing to take advantage of her. Any more than she’d be taking advantage of me. Besides, Vanessa’s husband died three years ago. Plenty of time to get back on to an even keel.’

‘Your wife died more than ten years ago. Do you feel you were on an even keel after three years?’

‘That was different.’

‘I see.’

‘Ronald will understand,’ I said with an optimism I did not feel. ‘I’ll make every effort to talk to him. I wouldn’t want to let the problem fester, naturally.’

‘Do you think it’s possible to build happiness on the unhappiness of others?’

‘Is that worse than making all three of us unhappy?’

Peter nodded, not conceding the point but merely passing on to the next difficulty. ‘And there’s the consideration that if a priest marries, he should choose someone who shares his beliefs. Otherwise it can put an intolerable strain on the marriage.’

‘Vanessa was confirmed in her teens. She’s not an atheist or anything like that. She’s simply not a committed churchgoer.’ I drew in a deep breath. ‘Quite apart from anything else, I think that this may be a way of bringing her back to the Church.’

‘I shall pray that you’re right.’

‘You don’t sound very hopeful.’

‘It’s merely that, if I were you, I’d tread very carefully. In my experience, a priest should be a husband to his wife. If he tries to be a priest as well, it can cause difficulties. It’s like a doctor treating his own family. There are two sets of priorities, and they can conflict.’

‘I take your point. I wouldn’t be heavy-handed about it. But Vanessa’s the sort of person who might well appreciate the more intellectual side of post-war theology. Tillich, Bultmann, Bonhoeffer – people like that. They could offer her a way back. I doubt if she’s even read Honest to God. I know you and I don’t altogether see eye to eye with –’

‘David?’

‘Sorry. I’m rambling, aren’t I?’

‘Have you discussed the idea with Rosemary?’

‘Not yet.’ I hesitated, knowing Peter was waiting for more. ‘All right. I suppose I’m putting it off. I could have mentioned it when she was home at half-term.’

‘You’ve obviously made up your mind that you’re going to ask Vanessa to marry you,’ he said slowly. ‘Very well. But in that case, I think you should tell Rosemary as soon as possible. She’s bound to feel upset. And if she hears the news from somebody else, think how much more damaging it will be.’

‘You’re right, of course.’

‘You may even find Rosemary’s jealous.’

I smiled. ‘Surely not.’

Even as I spoke I remembered the evening in September when I experienced that unpleasant, dreamlike state in church: the sense of being defiled; the wings of geese flying over the mudflats of an estuary. On the same evening Vanessa had phoned the Vicarage and left a message for me with Rosemary. I had never discovered why Rosemary had failed to pass on the message. I wondered now if she really had forgotten. But what other reason could there be?

The following evening I went to Vanessa’s flat in Richmond. She led me into the living room. A parcel was lying on the coffee table.

‘The book’s ready,’ she told me. ‘I’ve brought advance copies for you and Audrey.’

‘Damn the book,’ I said. ‘Will you marry me?’

She frowned, staring up at me. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t want to?’

‘It’s not that. But I’m not sure I’d be right for you.’

‘You would. I’m sure.’

‘But I’d be no good as a vicar’s wife. I just don’t have the credentials. I don’t want to have them.’

‘I don’t want to marry a potential vicar’s wife.’ I touched her arm and saw her eyes flicker, as if I had given her a tiny electric shock. But she did not move away. ‘I want to marry you.’

We stood there for a moment. She shivered. I slipped my arm round her and kissed her cheek. I felt as clumsy as a teenager with his first girl. She pulled away. Hands on hips, she glared at me with mock anger.

‘If I’d known this wretched book would lead to …’

‘Will you marry me? Will you?’

‘All right.’ Her face broke into a smile. ‘As long as I don’t have to be a vicar’s wife. I ought to get that in writing.’

I put my arms around her and we kissed. My body reacted with predictable enthusiasm. I wondered how on earth I could restrain myself from going further until we were married.

Afterwards, Vanessa brought out a bottle of Cognac, and we drank a toast to our future. Like teenagers, we sat side by side on the sofa, holding hands and talking almost in whispers, as though there were a danger that someone might overhear and envy our happiness.

‘I can’t believe you’ve agreed,’ I said.

‘I can’t understand how you’ve managed to stay single for so long. You’re far too good-looking to be a clergyman, let alone an unmarried one.’ She stared at me, then giggled. ‘You’re blushing.’

‘I’m not used to receiving compliments from beautiful women.’

Simultaneously we picked up our glasses. I think we were both a little embarrassed. The small talk of lovers is difficult when you’re out of practice.

Vanessa cradled the glass in her hand. ‘You’ve made me realize how lonely I’ve been,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve had more fun with you in the last two months than I’ve had in the last three years put together.’

‘Fun?’

Her fingers tightened on mine. ‘When you’re living on your own, there doesn’t seem much point in having fun. Or a sense of humour. Or going out for a meal. Didn’t you find that?’

Didn’t, not don’t. ‘Yes. But surely Ronald –’

‘Ronnie’s kind. He’s a good man. I like him. I trust him. I’m grateful to him. I almost married him. But he isn’t much fun.’

‘I don’t know if I am, either,’ I felt obliged to say. ‘Not on a day-to-day basis.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ She turned her head to look at me. ‘You know what I really love about you? You make me feel it’s possible to change.’

My inclination was to announce our engagement at once. It gave me great joy, and I wanted to share it. Vanessa, however, thought we should keep it to ourselves until we had told Ronald and Rosemary.

Her delay in telling Ronald almost drove me frantic. I could not feel that she was truly engaged to me until she had made it clear to Ronald that she would never be engaged to him. She did not tell him until ten days after she had agreed to marry me. They went out to lunch, in the Italian restaurant where we had talked about the warts of Francis Youlgreave.

Vanessa did not tell me what they said to each other and I did not ask. But the next time I saw Ronald, which was at a diocesan meeting, he was cool to the point of frostiness. He did not mention Vanessa and nor did I. I had told Peter that I would talk to Ronald, but when it came to the point I could not think of anything to say. He was businesslike and polite, but I sensed that any friendship he had felt for me had evaporated.

His sister Cynthia was less restrained. I had been up to London one afternoon, and I met her by chance at Waterloo Station on my way back home. We saw each other at the same time. We were walking across the station concourse and our paths were due to converge in a few seconds. Her chin went up and her mouth snapped shut. She veered away. After a few paces, she changed her mind and swung back towards me.

‘Good afternoon, Cynthia. How are you?’

She put her face close to mine. Her cheeks had flushed a dark red. ‘I think what you did was despicable. Taking advantage.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘I hope you pay for it.’

She turned away and, head down, ploughed into a crowd of commuters and vanished from my sight. I told myself that she was being unreasonable: that the fact of the matter was that Vanessa had chosen to marry me of her own free will; and there was no element of deception about it.

7

The round of parish work continued. Normally I would have welcomed much of this. Week by week, the rhythm of the church services made a familiar context for my life, a public counterpart to my private prayers. Weddings, baptisms and funerals punctuated the pattern.

There was satisfaction in the sense that one was carrying on a tradition that had developed over nearly two thousand years; that, through the rituals of the church, one was building a bridge between now and eternity. Less satisfying was the pastoral side of parish work – the schools and old people’s homes, visiting the sick, sitting on the innumerable committees that a parish priest cannot avoid.

At that time Roth Park, once the big house of the village, was still an old people’s home. The Bramleys, who owned it, were running it down, which meant that their guests were growing older, fewer and more decrepit. Their policy had an indirect effect on me. There was a run of deaths at Roth Park in those winter months of 1969–70, which became cumulatively depressing. Sometimes, when I walked or drove up to the house, I felt as though I were being sucked towards a dark vacuum, a sort of spiritual black hole.

Rosemary came back from school for the Christmas holidays. She had changed once again. Boarding school had that effect: each time she came home she was a stranger. I was biased, of course, but to me it seemed that she was becoming increasingly good-looking, developing into one of those classic English beauties, with fair hair, blue eyes, a high brow and regular features.

On her first evening home, I told her about Vanessa while we were washing up after supper. While I was speaking I could not see her face because her head was bent over the cutlery drawer. Afterwards she said nothing. She stacked the spoons neatly in the drawer, one inside the other.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘I hope …’ She paused. ‘I hope you’ll be happy.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’

Her words were formal, even stilted, but they were better than I had feared.

‘When will you get married?’

‘After Easter. Before you go back to school. Talking of which, Vanessa and I were wondering if you would like to transfer to somewhere nearer for your last year in the sixth form. So you could be a day girl.’

‘No.’

‘It’s entirely up to you. You may well feel it would be less upheaval to stay where you are. Where you are used to your teachers, among your own friends, and so on.’

Rosemary gathered a pile of plates and crouched beside a cupboard. One by one, with metronomic regularity, she put them away. I still could not see her face.

‘Rosie,’ I said. ‘I know this isn’t easy for you. It’s been just the two of us for a very long time, hasn’t it?’

She said nothing.

‘But Vanessa’s not going to be some sort of wicked stepmother. Nothing’s going to change between you and me. Really, darling.’

Still she did not speak. I crouched beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘So?’ I prompted. ‘What do you think?’

At last she looked at me. To my horror, I saw that her eyes had filled with tears. Her face was red. For a moment she was ugly. The tea towel slipped from her hands and fell to the floor.

‘What does it matter?’ she said. ‘We’ll end up doing what you want. We always do.’

Christmas came and went. Vanessa and I announced our engagement, causing a flurry of smiles and whispers among my congregation. We also agreed a date for our wedding – the first Saturday after Easter, shortly before Rosemary would be due to return to school for the summer term.

‘Couldn’t we make it sooner?’ I said to Vanessa when we were discussing the timing.

‘I think we’re rushing things as it is.’

I ran my eyes over her. Desire can produce a sensation like hunger, an emptiness that cries out to be filled. ‘I wish we didn’t have to wait. I’d like to feast on you. Does that sound absurd?’

She smiled at me and touched my hand. ‘By the way, I had a chat with Rosemary. It was fine – she seemed very pleased for us.’

‘I’m so glad.’

‘“I do hope you and Father will be very happy.” That’s what she said.’ Vanessa frowned. ‘Does she always call you “Father”? It sounds so formal.’

‘Her choice, as far as I remember. She always did, right from the start.’

‘Is it because you’re a priest? She’s very interested in the trappings of religion, isn’t she?’

‘It must be because of growing up in the odour of sanctity.’

Vanessa laughed. ‘I thought clergymen weren’t meant to make jokes about religion.’

‘Why not? God gave us a sense of humour.’

‘To go back to Rosemary: she’s agreed to be maid of honour.’

The wedding was going to be in Richmond, and Peter Hudson had agreed to officiate. The only other people we invited were two of Vanessa’s Oxford friends and a couple called the Appleyards, whom I had known since my days at Rosington. Early in the New Year, Vanessa and I spent a day with the Appleyards.

‘They seemed quite normal,’ she said to me as I drove her back to Richmond. ‘Not a dog collar in sight. Have you known them long?’

‘For years. Henry rented a room from us when we were living in Rosington.’

‘So they knew Janet?’

‘Yes.’

We drove in silence for a moment. I had told Vanessa about Janet, my first wife. Not everything, of course, but everything that mattered to Vanessa and me.

‘Michael’s nice,’ she went on. ‘How old is he?’

‘Coming up to eleven, I think.’

‘You’re fond of him, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ After a pause I added, ‘He’s my godson,’ though that did not explain why I liked him. Michael and I rarely had much to say to each other, but we had been comfortable in each other’s company ever since he was a toddler.

‘Do they ever come to Roth?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘We must ask them to stay.’

I glanced at her and smiled. ‘I’d like that.’