Wish Her Safe at Home (10 page)

He was born after a difficult pregnancy and a long and painful labour to a woman who was then approaching forty—virtually
old
for those times—but who, despite twenty years or more of fearing she would never be able to conceive, had still been so
determined
she was going to do so. After the child’s delivery the midwife had gone down on her knees, thanking her Maker, and his, over and over, with hot tears coursing down her cheeks, good honest woman that she was; while Horatio’s father, elderly and sensitive, was also much affected.

He said to his wife:

“‘My dear, we nearly lost you. Dr. Smollett says...
that this young fellow here...
our very last attempt...
’

“‘Mr. Gavin,’ she answered, ‘the good Lord has harkened to our prayer; and what a miracle he has vouchsafed us! So great a blessing as this would make me appear greedy indeed, were I even to
think
about desiring such another.’

“And she smiled up at him with so much simple goodness on her adored and loving features that he swiftly had to turn away, for fear of causing her soft heart a moment’s consternation...
”

* * *

By five o’clock that afternoon, even though I hadn’t properly started until two, I had covered over fourteen sides of my rough pad! And by nine o’clock, when I had copied them up neatly—with not one single crossing out!—I had filled nearly eight pages of the book itself.

(But, oh, how I had hesitated before inscribing my fateful first word upon that awesome snowbound territory: a land which—as the April thaws advanced—might burgeon into richness, a timeless enchantment for both the writer and the reader...
As a reader, indeed, I still never embarked on any serious novel without half hoping to find in it the solution to all of life’s most pressing queries: all of its problems, mysteries and ills: a story so self-contained and comprehensive it would finally render superfluous the reading of every other.
Yes
. My first word, apart from “Chapter One”—as yet I had no title—was “On.”)

When I at last laid down my pen I made a playful feint of collapsing—and how my hand and fingers really did ache! But I felt wonderfully elated by the act of creation; I hesitate to say “re-creation” since it was of course a novel, although “recreation” is what it really was. The
details
might be wrong, for the Reverend Mr. Wallace had in truth mentioned nothing of Horatio’s birth, nor had he given me the names and ages of Horatio’s parents, nor even once referred to either the absence or superabundance of siblings, but I knew the
spirit
was entirely right.

And even those troublesome details...
well, from the word go I had the strongest feeling I was being guided, led on and inspired in the same way (I am aware this sounds presumptuous; but why, when you truly pause to think about it?) that the Gospel writers must have been led on and inspired; my hand, my brain—my Biro—being the media through which some higher agency was seeking to communicate. Oh, yes, I can assure you! It was a grand and glorious feeling.

And how the hours had flown! I hadn’t stopped for supper; and even my afternoon cup of tea, would you believe, had been just that, a
cup
of tea, poured in the kitchen and carried upstairs with two ginger snaps balanced on the saucer! I laughed self-reproachfully and declared that never again must art be allowed to get in the way of civilization—but that for this first afternoon (and for this first afternoon only!) I had a special dispensation. And I knew
just
what Mr. Wallace meant: in appreciation of my gentle joke Horatio’s smile really did seem to grow a little wider.

At first I had intended to go out for my evening meal; I rather fancied something light and delicate in a stylish Thai restaurant lately opened. In fact I had already put on my coat and was standing before the mirror in the hall adjusting my—rakish, rather saucy—new hat when a further idea occurred to me: how unfair, if there were indeed going to be celebrations (I mean, over and above that very thoughtless, very tardy bottle of champagne), how excessively
selfish
to be thinking of holding them away from home! I took my things off discreetly, as if by acting so stealthily I might avoid having my earlier intentions guessed (what a nincompoop!) and went to look in the refrigerator. I found a little cold chicken and some potato salad and I could open my one small tin of asparagus spears. There was even the last of the Dom Perignon. What luxury! And this time, atoning for my lapse, I should try to be particularly considerate, right down to the second flute set across the table from me and the white damask napkin made into a tricorn: things which collectively, I hoped, would be viewed as a nice forgiveness-seeking gesture. Even the yoghurt looked extra pretty when poured into a stemmed syllabub glass and sprinkled with cinnamon—and of course I had given the silverware a quick polish.

I had recently renewed my makeup but I tidied my hair again, now that I had taken off my hat, and as I went back into the sitting room, bearing the supper tray with humility yet perhaps a touch of bashful pride, I felt in the proper festive mood: glowing, expectant, even a little nervous, just as if this were indeed going to be a party. And from now on, I thought, any true celebration would always be held right here at home.

This was a promise that I made to him.

I hadn’t been to church since childhood. What prompted me on this particular Sunday I don’t know. It might have been simply to say “Thank you!” but I usually said my thank-yous all over the place and in the main quite unselfconsciously.

Besides, I felt embarrassed as I went in. Was I late? Where to sit? There were already masses of people and I knew that every eye must have swivelled in my direction.

Holidaymaker? Resident? And could it have been in Bristol she had bought that stunning hat?

Yes, yes, I wanted to say: the answer to each of those questions is yes. Yes, unbelievably, my hat was indeed bought in Bristol! And, yes, I’m both a resident
and
on holiday. The whole of life should be a holiday.

I chose a place near the front. That was a mistake. Without turning round I couldn’t see most of the congregation.

On the other hand maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Most of the congregation—if it strained—could probably see
me
. I was wearing a very dashing sky-blue skirt and jacket.
Summer
-sky-blue, nothing wishy-washy. White blouse and scarf. To get ready had taken me two hours.

But I tried to be self-effacing. I followed through my notion about holidays. Life
ought
to be a holiday. There had been a film with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn which said precisely that. Money shouldn’t be allowed to dominate. The one essential was having the right attitude. And I agreed with this entirely. Why, only look at myself: how I had felt about things in London and how I felt about them now!

Confusingly it was in London that I’d seen the film yet it was in Bristol that Cary Grant had been born and raised. But I reflected that I should come to church more often. I had been here merely a few minutes and already I was having deep thoughts.

Yes, thank you—at long last I was truly enjoying my holiday. Enjoying it immensely. I wondered if poor Miss Eversley was in the congregation.

No, of course not. I’d have been amazed. Utterly. Quite as amazed as if...

Well, as if I’d suddenly decided to surprise everyone by rolling up my sleeves (
figuratively
speaking!) and stepping up into the pulpit. The pulpit was close. I could have reached it oh so easily. And wouldn’t people get a shock! I should love to see their faces!

“Ladies and gentlemen. What is a storm in the bathwater?” Dramatic pause. “I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a small tornado, it’s a shipwreck, it’s a desert isle. Two weeks in a sarong. (And whom would you choose to spend
those
with I wonder?) It’s an opportunity to grow. It provides you with a better chance you may have written something good when your Book of Life is finally shut. Something worthwhile. Something fantastic. A success story. That’s what the world demands. And every day’s a different page—how wonderful is that! So run off home and splash your bathwater! Amen, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.” I supposed I should have to cross myself.

But all this would certainly have added a fillip! Stirred things up a bit!

Unfortunately the service started while I was still thinking about it. A lady had begun to play the organ.

It was a long time since I’d heard an organ. Yet why should it take me back so quickly to the Odeon Leicester Square? A trailer, just a trailer: “Oh, you beautiful doll, you great big beautiful doll...
”

When I was a girl I had never appreciated that old Wurlitzer. Frankly I’d even found it somewhat boring.

What sacrilege!

“The Lord be with you.”

“And also with you.”

Good gracious, we
had
started. Where was I?

The minister was young and not bad looking in a beefy sort of way. This no doubt added a spot of pep to the service. No wonder there were so many women present; I might even come again myself. He had nicely shaped hands, well-manicured, the fingers dark with hair. His wrists as well. He’d almost surely have a hairy chest.

“Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known and from whom no secrets are hid...
”

I did my best to concentrate.

As a matter of fact it wasn’t Almighty God whom I ever worried about: his knowing what went on inside my heart. Or even inside my bathroom. It was all the people I had known who had now died. Or would they by this time have acquired a little more of
his
nature? I’d have felt shy in front of my headmistress, say, but not at all in front of God. Wasn’t that absurd? I shook my head and laughed at the absurdity of it.

The minister glanced in my direction.

Oh dear. Now I should have to apologize.

We had a hymn.

“Dear Lord and Father of mankind,

Forgive our foolish ways...
”

That was nice. And at least I knew my singing voice was definitely an asset.

“I’m so sorry that I laughed. It wasn’t disrespectful. I was simply having fun.”

“Miss Waring, that’s exactly the kind of sound we want to hear inside this church. It was like a breath of...
well, between you, me and the gatepost, Miss Waring, I must confess we don’t normally get enough of it. The congregation at St. Michael’s—perhaps I shouldn’t say this in view of such kind hearts and such excellent intentions—has always been, well, quite honestly, a little
stodgy
up till now. And I do so hope we’re going to see a lot more of you. I heard your singing by the way. May I ask if you entertain professionally?”

And then he added: “I know I oughtn’t to do this—vicars must never grow partial—but I’ve just got to compliment you on your dress and hat and everything. Breathtaking! Gorgeous!”

Altogether he was a most pleasant young man. During the reading of the Gospel I asked him a few questions. He was delighted by my quick intelligence; by my refusal merely to accept. I told him something of what Mrs. Pimm had said about the man who had thrown himself from a skyscraper and landed on a passerby. “Vicar, do
you
believe in second chances? You see, I keep getting this picture of that...
probably by now...
rather flat-looking individual being given
his
second chance. Don’t laugh. It’s the resurrection of a Silly Symphony. He goes loping off down the street like a cardboard cutout with a foolish grin.”

He did laugh.

“I say it again, Miss Waring. A positive breath of spring.”

“Now, Vicar. You just keep your mind on your business. You haven’t heard the rider to my question.” I rapped his knuckles with my fan. “Supposing that he
didn’t
get that second chance? Would you say then that he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time or would you actually believe it could have been the right place at the right time? There are other permutations, naturally, but I wouldn’t think of troubling you with those.”

I smiled.

“I also want to ask about King David...
and Bathsheba.”

“My goodness! I can see you’re going to be a full-time occupation! But listen, Rachel, standing here over coffee isn’t really the time for profound metaphysical discussion. You know the vicarage? Well, I’m afraid it’s mostly a shambles right now because my housekeeper, dear old soul that she is, isn’t quite the world’s most dedicated cleaner, nor most enterprising cook. But if you can find it in your heart to overlook such shortcomings as these...
”

It was all just agreeable nonsense of course. I hadn’t brought my fan.

He was now mounting the pulpit. I prepared myself quietly and without fuss to listen to his address. Firstly I smoothed my skirt out beneath me and, after I’d resumed my place, carefully crossed my legs. There was so little room: even the arranging of one’s hem required some element of expertise! Then I smiled with shared expectancy at those around me. (They didn’t seem too friendly.) Lastly I cleared my throat and looked all eager and attentive. I even bent forward slightly so that he should realize I intended not to miss a single word. Vicars, after all, were only human: they too unfolded and grew happier with encouragement. “It’s just like talking to your flowers,” I whispered to the woman next to me. In my own case, however—how should she realize?—it was a good deal more than that.

“We clergymen are always a little behind the times!” he began, quite mystifyingly. (There was a small but appreciative ripple of amusement. I myself laughed—perhaps more audibly than most. “No, no,” I declared, “nobody is ever going to believe
that
!”) “If you will forgive me I should like to quote from an Epistle we had much earlier in the year.”
Forgive
him? For something so immeasurably considerate? Obviously he knew that this was my first time here and had chosen a very tactful way of alluding to it. “Beautiful words can sometimes become so familiar that we almost stop listening to what they mean.”

This was true. I nodded my approval. I felt inclined to call: “Hear, hear!”

I laughed instead. “Oh, you’re so right!” I observed. “Yes, shame on us! Fie!”

“Though I have all faith,” he continued, “so that I could remove mountains...
and though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor...
and have not charity...
”

There was a long and telling pause. He was looking straight at myself.

“It profiteth me nothing,” he said.

He spoke the words ringingly, deliberately, with force. I could see his knuckles white upon the rail, those very knuckles which scarcely three minutes earlier had received my playful taps.

“It—profiteth—me—nothing!”

I could hardly believe it. For the sake of appearances he moved his head slowly from one side of the nave to the other; but this didn’t fool me in the slightest. I knew full well whose eye he aimed to catch.

“In other words,” he said, “without love I would not be worth...
anything
!”

No, I just couldn’t believe it. He went on to talk about the hunger strikers in the Maze—had I even the remotest idea of the number who had so far died? He wanted to know how persistently I had prayed for any one of them. How many policemen and rioters had been injured at Toxteth he asked. What was the name of that six-year-old child who had been wedged down a well in total darkness for three whole days at the start of June? When was the last time I had passed a hospice or a shelter for alcoholics or even a hospital and thought at all about any of those suffering within? What did I know about either the oldest victim or the youngest who had been killed whilst trying to cross the Berlin Wall?

From there, somehow, he went on to talk about how I might so easily just be whistling in the dark, how I needed to take a long hard look at my priorities, how he felt, for all I know, about
The Man Who Came to Dinner
or
Chariots of Fire
or Shirley Temple—I simply wasn’t listening. He stood there looking so pious and dynamic, with his hairy hands and his hairy chest and his hitherto honeyed tongue, and of all the messages of comfort he could have chosen as a loving and warm-hearted welcome he had gone out of his way to pick a text like that. And at only a moment’s notice too! How cruel! How unspeakably cruel! To have made me feel he was genuinely pleased to see me there, a leavening and stimulating influence, a rare and charming remembrancer of spring, and then to have demonstrated only too plainly...
what could you call it now?...
his
jealousy
? Was no one but himself permitted to invigorate?

Well, he could keep his invigoration. He could hold on to his hairy hands.
And
to his hairy chest. I wouldn’t want any part of them.

“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”

“Some hope!” I said—I thought, quite wittily—staring around me in defiance.

He ended as though he had simply decided to throw this in for good measure: “For now we see through a glass, darkly.”

“Do we, indeed? That may be what
you
think! But take a referendum among the rest of us.”

There was a pause. I picked up my handbag and gloves and almost walked out right there and then. That, too, might have stirred things up a bit. Yet just in time I stopped myself. People mustn’t, absolutely must
not
, be allowed to see how deeply they had hurt me.

But during the next hymn I didn’t sing.

Oh, yes, I moved my lips all right; it was just that I let no sounds emerge. I could see him looking at me in pretended consternation.

“Oh, have you strained that lovely voice of yours, Miss Waring?”

“I think I should make it clear, Mr. Morley, that I am no longer fooled by your bootlicking manner. You can now go and practise on the chemist. The two of you ought to found a Badedas Society—compose some suitably ingratiating jingle!”

When the collection plate came round I didn’t put in the pound notes I had planned. I almost put in nothing. Yet then, more subtle and poetical than that, I saw I had some silver in my purse and I picked out precisely 35p.

I began to feel better. By the time everybody suddenly and inexplicably started to shake hands (they were evidently a friendlier bunch than I’d supposed) I had sufficiently recovered—by dint of ignoring, blocking out, trying to think only of things pleasant—to be able to participate. Indeed I joined in readily and with considerable aplomb, especially in view of the fact that I’d at first been disconcerted: “How do you do? Don’t you find it rather cold in here? I really like your handbag.”