The Judgement of Strangers (5 page)

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?

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.’