had to go. I changed schools and we moved to a smaller house. Mummy hit the bottle. We'd come home from school and find her drunk, with the house like a refuse heap. The day after I passed my eleven-plus she took an overdose of painkillers and died.'
I'd been nibbling the bread. Now I pushed the plate away and listened.
'The three of us were spread amongst relatives. I went to live with Aunt Grace, in Cheltenham. At first it was much better there, and I was sent away to school, which I enjoyed. Then one Christmas I came home to find that Aunt Grace had married again. He was called Alec.
Uncle Alec. He seemed to take a shine to me. He… took me for walks, to the pictures, bought me special treats. I thought he was wonderful.' She paused. I saw her swallow before she took up the story again: 'One night, in the dormitory, the girls were talking. The older girls were telling us about… well… about sex. I suppose it was all invented, the product of girlish imaginations, but suddenly I realised that Uncle Alec's affection wasn't as innocent as I had believed.'
Annabelle had drawn up her knees and was embracing them with her arms, still staring at the ceiling. She continued: 'After that it was horrible. Once he realised that I knew what he was after and had not told Grace, he became crude and persistent. I hated going home for the holidays. I would make excuses and stay behind for an extra week, and always went back for the new term a few days early. Half-term holidays I stayed at school. I visited as many friends as I could. I became quite a proficient little liar, I'm afraid.'
'Understandably,' I said.
She put her feet back on the floor and looked at me. 'The net result was that I did well at school. I was determined to, so I could get away from them as soon as possible. I was accepted for Lady Margaret Hall when I was seventeen. They suggested I do a year's voluntary work, so I packed my rucksack and went to Biafra. It was quite a shock to a little girl from the Home Counties. But Peter was there to help me. He was thirteen years my senior and I fell hopelessly in love with him. I thought he'd hardly noticed me, but towards the end of the year he was transferred to Kenya and asked me to go with him.'
The microwave beeped four times. Annabelle jumped up and served the soup. 'Would you like some more bread?' she asked.
I shook my head. 'No thanks, but I'd like you to continue the story.'
After serving the soup she resumed her seat and began again. 'Kenya was wonderful. You must go, sometime. Peter insisted I continue my education, so my degree certificate says Nairobi University. Not as prestigious as Oxford, but more colourful.'
'Mine says Batley College of Art,' I admitted between mouthfuls.
'We married when I was nineteen and stayed in Kenya for another eight years. I've been back a couple of times.' She was smiling now, a faraway look in her eyes. 'I miss Kenya. Those were probably the happiest days of my life.'
'So why did you leave?'
'Peter was taken ill. Malaria, a particularly persistent strain. He regarded it as God's will and we came back to England. He threw himself into his ministry and the rest, as they say, is history.'
'You never had children?'
The clouds came back. 'No. It wasn't to be. Something else that Peter put down to God's will. Understanding what is willed by God and what isn't is a science known only to a few.'
For the first time I detected that things had not always been sunshine and roses between the bishop and his lady. 'What happened to him?' I asked.
'Cancer. He wouldn't see the doctor because he thought it was the malaria and it would just run its course. When he did go for tests it was too late. It took him two painful years to die.' She fixed me with her blue eyes. 'My faith was never as strong as his, Charles.
What I experienced in Biafra saw to that. But I'll never forget how brave Peter was; right to the end. If faith can do that I wish I had more.'
It was my turn to reach out and place my hand over hers. She turned her hand over so that our fingers intertwined. I couldn't help comparing her childhood with my own: an only child of doting parents who took exaggerated pride in my modest achievements. 'You've had some rough times,' I said. 'It hasn't all been bedtime cocoa and Winnie the Pooh, has it?'
'No. Did you think it had?'
'Yes,' I confessed. 'I probably did.'
'C'mon,' she said, rising to her feet. 'Let's go where it is more comfortable.'
We went through into her sitting room. It was a tasteful amalgam of the modern and the traditional; bold prints and lots of dark wood. I sank into the settee while Annabelle searched for a CD.
'Any requests?' she asked.
'Something light and breezy,' I suggested.
'Vivaldi?'
'Perfect.'
She came to sit alongside me and we waited for the first crystal notes to fill the room.
It wasn't really a Zen experience. Exactly the opposite, I suppose, but the feeling was similar. All of my senses were switched off except my hearing, as if I were floating in a bath of liquid so perfect that I couldn't feel its presence. Maybe my eyes were closed, or perhaps they were open but there was a complete absence of light to trigger the optic nerve. This was the state of grace that drug-takers and religious fanatics crave. The music was Mozart.
I appreciated him as I had never done before. Perfection. Maybe he was the master after all. But why Mozart? I thought. Where am I?
Ought I to be going somewhere? Has the alarm gone of? Surely it was Vivaldi a minute ago.
Oh Carruthers! I remembered where I was. It's at unguarded times like this that the real inner you expresses itself. I sat up and blurted out: 'I fell asleep!' Not very bright but it could have been a lot worse.
Annabelle clutched her sides with laughter. She was sitting in one of the easy chairs. I held my head in my hands and said: 'Oh God, what must you think of me?'
'I think you must have been exhausted,' she said, still giggling at my discomfort.
I looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. 'I'm sorry, Annabelle.
You must think I'm dreadful company. I just felt so relaxed and…'
'Don't worry about it, Charles.' She'd regained her composure. 'You were tired. Actually, it was quite nice to have a man snoring on the settee again.' The giggling erupted once more.
'I didn't snore!' I exclaimed in horror, adding: 'Did I?'
'Mmm just a little.'
'Oh no! It gets worse.' I slipped my shoes back on, not remembering having taken them off, and rubbed the fur from my teeth with my tongue.
'Would you like a drink before you go?' She was in full control again.
'No thanks, Annabelle. I've already overstayed my welcome. It's been a lovely evening for me, if not for you.' I retrieved my jacket from the kitchen and we walked towards the front door. I said: 'Annabelle, I'd like to see you at the weekend. There's a few loose ends to sort out in the office, then I want to change my priorities; sort out my life. May I see you?'
'Yes, Charles. I'd like that.'
'Saturday? I'll book a table somewhere.'
She shook her head. 'No. I'll cook us something. You bring the wine.'
'That sounds nice,' I said. It was my entry for the Understatement of the Millennium competition. We were at the door. 'Thanks for putting up with me.'
'It should be me thanking you, Charles.'
'For what?'
'For asking about Peter.'
She'd opened the door slightly, allowing a blast of cold air into the hallway. I pushed it shut again and took her in my arms. I could feel the heat of her body as it moulded to mine. She was so slim my arms easily encircled he rand her ribs were a gentle ripple beneath my hands. Her lips were strong and mobile… and she took them away far too quickly.
