The Benefits of Passion (29 page)

‘By, this is funny lettuce, pet,' remarked Johnny, prodding at a radicchio leaf with his fork.

‘Pillock.'

It was a happy evening. Johnny kept them entertained with scurrilous stories and impersonations of prominent churchmen. Annie had never seen Will so relaxed and able to laugh at himself. This was fortunate, since Johnny included in his repertoire an impression of Dr Orlando Penn-Eddis performing an internal examination.

‘Stop it!' protested both women. ‘It's not funny.' The drooling expression, the pulling-on of surgical gloves – Will was helpless with laughter.

He was still chuckling as he and Annie walked home.

‘Why does he call you Orlando?' she asked, after a moment.

‘Because that's my name,' said Will.

‘What?'

‘Mothers,' he said darkly. ‘William's my middle name.'

‘You didn't tell me!'

His good humour evaporated. ‘Well, there's plenty you don't tell me.'

‘Like what?'

‘Like what you're writing.'

‘He told you!' she cried in shock.

‘Who's he? Johnny, I suppose. Oh, great. You tell him, but you don't tell me. What else does he know?'

‘He's a vicar,' she protested, hurrying to keep up with his furious strides.

‘So what
are
you writing all the time? If you can bring yourself to tell me.'

‘Nothing much. A novel.'

‘Can I read it?'

‘It's just a draft.'

‘But you've got copies? Annie, you idiot! What if you lose it? Why haven't you got a word processor?'

‘I can't afford one.'

‘Yes, you can. How often do I have to say money's no problem?'

‘It is! It's always a problem, whether you've got it, or whether –'

‘Don't be so fucking stubborn! I'm going to buy you a computer.'

‘You can take your money,' she cried, suddenly angry, ‘and stick it up your
arse
.'

‘Oh, well done!' he applauded sarcastically. ‘Let's see if we can improve on that, shall we? “You can take your
fucking
money and stick it up your arse.” Say it.'

‘
Sodding
money,' corrected Miss Brown, getting the hang of it. ‘You're mixing your metaphors.'

They strode on in angry silence for a while. Then he relented and took her hand. ‘Oh, come on. Don't be mad at me, Annie. I want to buy you things. It makes me feel good. Please.'

‘Why do I let you get away with this?' she asked in despair.

‘Because you're basically a good sweet obedient girl.'

They reached the house. He led her upstairs.

‘Where are we going?'

‘To find you a study.'

They went up the last flight to an attic. Annie had never been up there, although she was aware it existed. It was a large room, bare, apart from a couple of leafy plants.

‘They're pretty,' said Annie. ‘What are they?'

‘Oriental tomatoes,' he said, after a short pause. ‘Don't worry. I'll shift them.' She crossed to the window. Bishopside lay spread out in the dusk. In the distance were the hills.

‘Oh!' she exclaimed.

‘Why don't you get it done out?' he suggested. ‘Choose a carpet, curtains, a desk. Whatever.'

‘Can I use colour?' she asked.

He nipped her arm and she squealed. ‘Do what you like. Blow all my money.'

He slid his arms round her and they stood looking out across the town. The street lights wavered and winked in the haze. She could hear the wind stirring the sycamore leaves and the sound of traffic on the distant by-pass. His lips brushed the side of her neck.

‘I don't suppose,' he murmured, ‘there's anything else of mine you'd like to blow?'

CHAPTER 27

When Annie woke the following morning her stomach fluttered. She pressed her hands on the growing bump and moved restlessly. There was another tickling sensation. Wind, she thought. All that garlic last night. Pregnancy is so glamorous.

Will stirred. ‘Are you OK?'

‘Indigestion, I think. It's sort of fluttering . . .'

She saw a wide grin dawn. ‘It'll be the baby moving.'

‘Oh!' Her heart leapt. ‘Do you think so?'

‘Yes.' He slid his hand over her stomach. ‘You're about seventeen weeks, aren't you?'

‘They think so. I've got a scan this afternoon, so . . . Oh! It's doing it again. Tickling.'

‘I love you, Annie.' There were tears in his eyes.

‘You big softy.'

Annie phoned the vicarage later in the morning to say thank you. Mara answered the phone. They exchanged a few polite nothings and were about to hang up when Annie said on impulse, ‘I don't suppose you're any good at spending money, are you?'

‘Why?' asked Mara suspiciously.

Annie explained about the study and twenty minutes later Mara was there casting her artistic eye round the attic. ‘Cannabis!' she said in surprise, pointing at the plants.

‘Oh!' Annie flushed. Oriental tomatoes – I hate you, Penn-Eddis. ‘He's getting rid of them,' she mumbled, hoping Mara wouldn't realize she hadn't known. The other woman was grinning.

‘I'll help you decorate, if you like,' offered Mara.

‘That would be wonderful. I've got a special dispensation to use colour.'

They caught the metro to Newcastle and, under Mara's direction, Annie spent a quite staggering amount of money.

‘We can't carry all this,' she protested.

‘Have it delivered,' said Mara, with a shrug. Her pale stare swept assessingly over Annie. ‘You could have your hair cut while we're at it. And what about some clothes?'

Annie gave in meekly, chastened by the thought that Mara had been itching to get to work on her dowdy image.

‘Let me buy you lunch,' said Annie, when the orgy of buying was over.

‘Actually, I don't feel too good,' Mara replied. ‘Stomach ache.'

‘Oh! I'm sorry. You should've said. I –'

‘It's nothing.' But she was looking pale. At Annie's insistence they got a taxi back.

Remorse set in that afternoon. She sat in the bedroom among piles of carrier bags and felt guilty. I'm as bad as Isabella, she thought. Why had she allowed Mara to talk her into spending so much money on clothes? Her hand wandered to the nape of her neck where the hair had been cropped short. She crossed to the mirror and examined herself. It was the first time she could remember looking chic and grown-up. Even Isabella would not have scorned the honey-coloured silk dress. Perhaps she could face the assembled Penn-Eddis clan that weekend with some degree of equanimity. Yes, you've done rather well out of all this, sneered a little voice inside her. Her reflection began to appear calculating to her. She went back to the bed and lay down.

She was woken by the phone. It was nearly seven o'clock.

‘Annie. Henry Melville here.'

‘Bishop! Um, goodness, hello.' She sat up on the bed and smoothed her hair. ‘I'm coming to see you next week,' she stuttered.

‘Yes. Now, it's come to my attention that you're cohabiting.'

‘Um . . .'

‘This is quite unacceptable,' he said testily. ‘If I let you do it, everyone else will want to, and then where would I be?'

‘Um . . . I'm sure . . .' What had come over him? There was a hiccup at the other end and it occurred to her that he was drunk.

‘It's not easy being a bishop, you know. Everyone carrying on with everyone else. Finances . . .' He trailed off with a sob. ‘Forgive me. I shouldn't burden you like this.'

‘No, no, it's fine.' Help! Then the sobbing gave way to laughter. ‘Johnny?'

‘You never fell for it!'

She seethed and wished she could swear with Will's insouciance.

‘How is old Henry these days?' he asked. ‘He was Principal of Jesus when I was at Coverdale. “We don't have to ordain you, John.”' He laughed again, as if remembering some disgraceful episode. ‘Listen, is your man there?'

‘No.'

‘Get him to give us a ring, pet.'

Annie remained silent.

‘Ha'away, I'm sorry.' He blew her some kisses down the line.

“Vicars shouldn't behave like that,' said Miss Brown primly.

‘Like what?'

‘Playing tricks. And flirting,' she added.

‘It puts bums on pews, flower.'

Annie squeaked with indignation. ‘Some of us come because it's the nearest evangelical church!'

‘Goodness! Heavens, Annie! I didn't mean
you
.'

She recognized her own voice and seethed again.

‘Get him to ring us. Please. It's important.'

‘All right.'

They hung up. Seven o'clock, she thought suddenly. Where was Will? A voice in her mind suggested he was dead or had gone off with another woman. To silence these fears she rang the surgery, only to be told that he had left an hour earlier. For the next half-hour she tried not to conjure up the tread of police footsteps on the path. At last she heard Will opening the front door. ‘Sorry I'm late,' he called. ‘Come and give me a hand.'

She went out to the car where he was balancing a large box.

‘
J'accuse!
' he said, seeing her hair and her dress. ‘You've been spending my money. Turn round.'

She obeyed. ‘Is it all right? It was Mara's idea.'

‘Mmm. Very nice. Here, take this end.'

They carried the box into the house and up to the spare room.

‘What is it?' she asked.

‘Your computer. Shall I show you how it works, or shall I just stick it up my arse?'

He set it up and demonstrated how to use it. Annie was surprised at how simple it was to operate. It was like a clever typewriter, really. How silly to have been nervous of them all these years.

‘Now you can put your novel on disk and I can read it,' said Will.

‘Later,' said Annie.

‘What's it about?'

‘A curate and his wife.'

‘Any sex?'

She blushed. ‘Some.'

‘Great. I like a good cassock ripper. Can I just read the opening paragraph? Please,' he wheedled.

She handed him the first notebook with a smile. He opened it eagerly, then threw it aside in disgust when he saw it was in code.

‘I'll let you read it when I'm happy with it,' she promised.

‘Which will be never.'

He's probably right, she thought. She stared at the screen then typed
Chapter One.
Suddenly it looked official. Her heart fluttered. Will saw her excitement and laughed. He put his arms round her and began kissing the nape of her neck.

‘I'm glad you came back,' she said.

‘Were you worried?'

‘No. It's just that Posthumous is such a silly name for a child. I gave those plants to the church bring-and-buy stall, by the way.'

‘
What!
' he said in alarm, before he saw her laughing. ‘God, you're so mean to me.' He pouted. ‘It's just an ancient herbal remedy.'

‘For what?'

He smiled. ‘For reality.' He was about to kiss her again when the phone rang. Annie started guiltily, remembering Johnny. Will went to answer it, and she heard him say, ‘Piss off. I've only just got in. Phone the surgery like everyone else.' There was a longish pause. ‘OK. I'm on my way.'

He came back into the room. ‘That was Johnny. Mara's ill, but she won't let him call the surgery. She's terrified of hospitals. I said I'd go round.'

‘Is it serious?'

‘Sounds like it.'

‘Will you be long?'

He sighed. ‘Depends. Don't wait up.'

A strong aggressive woman like Mara afraid of hospitals? And Will and Johnny were indulging that fear. Annie knew she was being uncharitable and offered up a guilty little prayer that Mara would be all right then started to put her novel on to the computer. The first notebook was missing, however. Will must have put it down somewhere. In the end Annie gave up the search and began with the second book.

At ten thirty she went to bed. Will rang to say he was at the hospital. ‘It looks like an ectopic pregnancy, I'm afraid,' he said.

‘Oh, no!'

‘They're operating now. I'll stay here and keep Johnny company.'

‘Of course. Will she be all right?'

‘She'll probably lose an ovary.'

‘The baby . . . ?'

‘No chance.'

Annie lay in bed feeling her own baby fluttering. Poor Mara and Johnny. Their desperately wanted child gone while my little accident is still thriving, she thought.
God is good
. Would Johnny still be saying that? Annie prayed that he would.

The following morning Annie was still too upset to write the next section of her novel and spent the time typing up the earlier chapters instead. The first notebook was still missing. What if she'd lost it altogether?

Will returned for lunch looking very pleased with himself. He handed her a typed sheet.

‘Isabella Deane was downwardly mobile,' she read. ‘Her older sister Hermione, who was not, deplored this tendency . . .' Annie stared in disbelief.

‘But . . .' Her missing notebook was in his hand. He's deciphered it! Her face burned in indignation.

‘You said I could read it,' he pointed out.

‘I hate you!' Annie listened to her childish words in horror, but Will seemed unperturbed.

‘Go and type the rest up,' he said. ‘I love it. I want to know what happens next.'

She was too angry to be pleased by his praise.

‘I hope it has a happy ending,' he said.

‘No,' she replied.

‘It has to. You've set it up as a comedy. You can't bugger your readers around like that.'

‘I'm the writer. I can do what I like.'

‘No, you can't. You're not God.'

Annie was still raging inwardly after he'd gone back to work. How dare he tell her how to write her own book? Eventually she calmed down enough to admit it was his violation of her secret shorthand that was angering her. It had been hers since childhood. It had repelled and thwarted everyone. He's too clever by half, said her mother's voice. But perhaps it had been a test she had unconsciously set him? He alone had bothered to decode her. And he loved what he'd found. She fingered the thought sceptically.

That afternoon Annie was sitting waiting to have her scan. It was a broiling day.
Please ensure that you have a full bladder
, the appointment card said.
And we will amuse ourselves at your expense by running late
, it might have added. Annie shifted in her plastic chair.

‘Ee, I'm bloody bursting,' the woman next to her muttered.

At last she was called. A man in a white coat riffled disdainfully through her notes. ‘Cold,' he warned her, dropping a dollop of gel on her exposed belly. He rolled the scanning device this way and that over her bulge. Patterns filled the screen. Annie gazed eagerly, but it might have been a satellite weather map of the UK for all she could tell. The man seemed to be taking measurements and she didn't like to disturb him.

‘First day of last menstrual period?' he asked.

‘Um, I'm not sure. Sorry.'

He sighed. There was a pause for more measurements.

‘Well, everything seems to be fine. One foetus. Sixteen weeks, four days. Due date . . .' he fiddled with a little cardboard disc, ‘the eighth of December.'

He pointed out various bits of baby in a rather bored way. Stomach, spine, heart . . . Annie nodded, baffled by the jumble, but then suddenly she glimpsed a little hand and almost cried out.

It's real, she thought tremulously. My baby.

The man wiped her belly with a paper towel. ‘Toilet through there.'

Annie bolted towards it.

Johnny was with Mara when Annie was shown into the room.

‘Oh! I'll come back.'

‘No, stay and talk to her,' said Johnny. ‘I've got a couple of other visits to make.'

Mara flapped a feeble hand and Annie hoped this indicated agreement.

‘If you're sure . . .'

‘Aye. I'll run you home later.' He stooped to kiss Mara, then left the room.

‘Um, I brought you some novels,' said Annie.

‘Thanks,' whispered Mara. She was too ill to rouse herself, so Annie put the books on the bedside locker.

‘I'm really sorry,' began Annie. Mara's hand flapped again. Annie perched on the edge of the bed.

‘At least I know I can conceive,' whispered Mara.

Annie nodded, wondering if Mara realized she had lost an ovary.

‘I've just been having my scan,' she heard herself say. She stopped short, wishing she could suck in her tactless bulge.

‘Could you see much?' asked Mara.

‘Not really. A hand.'

They fell silent. Annie thought again about the little hand. She felt strange, as though she'd been intruding, prying into a nest where the fledgeling slept.

‘Are you scared?' asked Mara. ‘Of labour.'

‘I suppose I haven't really thought about it,' admitted Annie.

‘I'm scared.'

‘Oh, but it can't be as bad as what you've just been through.' Annie heard her tones coming out with an awkward jolliness.

‘My sister had a baby. The brain never grew.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Annie. ‘Did she have other –'

‘She died.'

Annie hesitated, unable to tell whether Mara meant her sister or the baby. Somehow she couldn't ask. Mara's eyes were closed. Annie watched as she drifted asleep, the blue-veined eyelids flickering. It was unbearably hot. Out of the window the lime-tree leaves hung motionless and the air shimmered over the hospital rooftops.