all those years ago. 'When?'
'It has to be soon. The offer only lasts through September.'
'I'm game,' she said. 'We can afford it, can't we?'
Looking uncomfortable, Gary ran his stubby fingers under the neck of the T-shirt and eased it off his skin. 'It's a trip for the guys.'
'What?'
'If I go, it's for the music.'
She sat forward. 'I'm not included? Is that what you're saying?'
'Nothing is fixed yet.'
'I'm going to bed.'
She left him in front of the screen, trying to look as if there was something of interest going on. Upstairs, in the privacy of the shower, she tasted her tears, and mouthed the word 'bastard' repeatedly, hating him for his selfishness and herself for letting it get to her. Was this what twelve years of marriage added up to, putting up with life in this poxy village, living decently, staying faithful to a boring, unattractive nerd who ignored her except when he wanted 'a ride,' as he crudely called it? She felt a visceral rage at the humiliation, the discovery that she hadn't even entered his plans.
Well, she wouldn't demean herself by begging to go with him. Even if he saw how wounded she was, changed his mind and condescended to let her join him, she would refuse.
In their kingsize bed she lay so close to the edge of the mattress that she could feel the beading under her knee. She heard the selfish sonofabitch come upstairs, take off his things, go to the bathroom. Next, his bare feet crossing the carpet and finally the springs moving as he got into bed. She breathed evenly, feigning sleep. If he reached for her as he usually did on a Saturday, she would take her pillow and sleep in the spare room.
He had the sense to leave her alone.
Three
Everyone in Foxford knew about the bishop's death before Otis Joy announced it in Morning Service, but something had to be said. As usual, the young rector found the right words. 'It appears he took his own life,' he said on a note of shocked disbelief that spoke for everyone in the congregation. 'If so, that's specially difficult to understand, but I don't think we should try without knowing all the facts. God moves in mysterious ways. Marcus Glastonbury was an able, honest and caring bishop, strong in his leadership of the diocese. Some of you knew him personally, as I did. A great loss. I'm sure there will be a memorial service in due course and some of us will be there. For the present, let us remember all he did to encourage this, our church, as we pray for him.'
This, their church, was Saxon in origin and there was a legend about its building that showed how the conflict between good and evil was strong in the minds of the early Christians. The first site proposed had been half a mile away, at a place where the 'old religion' had been practised. The foundations were put down and the building began, but by night the Devil was supposed to have come and removed some of the stones to their present site. The builders persevered, and so did the powers of darkness until a decision was taken to give way and build at this end of the village. If the legend had any truth in it, and the Devil chose the site, you would think people would be wary of some devilment lurking in the walls. Not, it seemed, in the modern age.
All that remained of the Saxon church were some stones built into the tower at the west end. The present St. Bartholomew's was a nineteenth century reconstruction with a short, recessed spire. Inside were traces of medieval carving: an early thirteenth century arch in the north porch and a window with motifs of around 1320. The Victorian restorer had done a good job. The interior was simple, light and welcoming. The timbers of the hammerbeam roof gave a feeling of solidity.
This century's contribution was mainly in the fabrics sewn and woven by the women of Foxford: the embroidered altar-cloth with a floral design; the dossal, or hanging back-panel for the altar, representing the Annunciation; the lectern fall with crucifix in padded gold kid; the individual kneelers, memorials to past worshippers; and the priest's vestments, including a magnificent cope handworked in combinations of metallic threads, kid-leather, beads and stitches. Usually it came out for weddings, baptisms and the great festivals of Christmas, Whitsun and Easter. Otis Joy was modest in his choice of vestments the rest of the year.
William Cowper's hymn 'Sometimes a light surprises' was an inspired choice to follow the prayer for the bishop, a perfect link to happier matters. The fete had raised the record sum of?520. Standing in the aisle with one hand resting on a pew-end, the rector said, 'You know, we in the church are sometimes uncomfortable about money-raising. Money is the root of all evil. Does anyone know who said that?'
'St. Timothy,' spoke up one of the Bible Class.
'Sorry, George, but no. I think it was the Andrews Sisters. Anyone remember the song? You're not going to own up, are you? 'Money is the root of all evil, take it away, take it away, take it away.' What Timothy said was 'The
Rachel, in her place to the left of the aisle, six rows back, praised the Lord whilst noticing how the rector, lustily leading the singing, had caught the sun at the fete. It had picked out and reddened the angles of his face-the broad forehead, the interesting cheekbones, the ridge of his nose and the point of his chin, making him look more ruggedly attractive in his robes than any member of the clergy ought to appear. She-it must be said-was singing the words of the hymn without taking in the meaning. And during the sermon, with Otis Joy's dark head and the top of his surplice showing above the pulpit, she tried mentally dressing him in a variety of uniforms, as you would in those children's books with sections you put together in different combinations. Cowboy, soldier, policeman, pilot, boxer, bridegroom.
All too soon they were singing the last hymn and he said the Grace and made his way up the aisle to the door, passing so close to Rachel as she knelt in prayer that she felt the movement of air from his cassock.
The pews creaked with the weight of people resuming their seats to dip their heads in a last, silent prayer. These days the church was filled for Morning Service. Two extra rows had to be provided with stacking chairs from the church hall. No other rector in living memory had achieved such support except for the Christmas Midnight Service.
The organ started up again to the tune of 'For all the saints' and the movement towards the door began. Rachel filed out behind two old ladies in black straw hats who always sat behind her and sang half a bar after everyone else. When their turn came to shake the rector's hand, they congratulated him on his sermon, but he didn't appear to hear. He was already in eye contact with Rachel.
'I didn't thank you.'
'Thank me?'
'For your help.'
'You just thanked us all, beautifully.'
'At the rectory last evening.'
'It was nothing, really,' she said, enjoying the touch of his hand. 'We all joined in.'
'But you did more than your share.'
She shook her head modestly and was starting to move on when he added, 'Look, there's something else, if you don't mind waiting a few minutes. Would you?'
She managed to say, 'Of course.' Her voice piped up in a way she didn't intend, but he had surprised her.
