serviceable skirt and jumper, and the clerical collar.
She’d come straight from a meeting with the archdeacon, and she was running late. It had been an even more taxing day than usual, arranging to cover the obligations of two parish vicars who were away. But she had been fortunate, young as she was, and a woman, to be appointed rural dean, over and above the duties required by her own parish of St. Mary’s, and she reminded herself of that whenever she was tempted to whinge.
She slowed as she passed the Abbey, gazing through the wrought-iron fence at its grounds. As a child she’d felt a secret inclination towards the cloistered life; even now, a breath of the Abbey air made her feel strangely peaceful. Had the pilgrims come by the thousands hoping for a dispensation to save their souls, or because a glimpse of the Abbey itself was as close as they might get to paradise?
Turning into the High, she was lucky enough to spot a parking place on the street a few doors past the Galatea. She swung the Fiat into the space, then walked back to the cafe, stopping to peer into the window.
The cafe’s door stood open to the air. Jack sat at their usual table, halfway towards the back, reading something intently. Free to study him for a moment, Winnie tried to consider him dispassionately. A large, solidly built man with a shock of fair hair, and a rugged, hook-nosed face, he had the most piercingly blue eyes she had ever encountered. He might have played rugby—certainly he was not the weedy vicar type she had always found attractive. The thought made her smile, and in that instant, Jack looked up and saw her.
By the time she reached the table he had shuffled his papers out of the way. “Long day?” he asked, giving her a swift kiss. “You look a bit knackered. I’ve ordered some wine.”
“You’re a dear,” she replied, relaxing into her chair with a sigh as he poured her a glass of the Burgundy already open on the table. “We had more than the usual squabbling and backbiting in the Deanery chapter meeting.”
Jack studied her with the intense gaze she still found disconcerting. “I can tell. You’ve that strained look about the eyes.”
She took a sip of the wine already waiting, let it linger on her tongue, then nodded towards his briefcase. “Working?”
“Mmmmm,” he answered noncommittally. “Hungry?”
“Ravenous. All that fresh air.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve come on that dreadful bike?” he asked, grinning.
“No, more’s the pity. It would have been a lovely day for it, but I had to go too far afield.” They had an ongoing disagreement about her bike, which he considered a threat to life and limb. But she loved the old thing, and after her London parish she cherished the freedom she felt as she made her daily rounds on it. There were times, however, when the weather or the distance of her calls forced her to use the serviceable Fiat that had come with the job. She narrowed her eyes, giving him a mock glare. “I’ve no intention of giving it up, you know, no matter how much you nag me.”
“Then we had better build up your strength,” he replied wryly as the waitress arrived at their table.
Over dinner, they chatted companionably about their respective days, but Winnie soon sensed that in spite of his solicitousness, Jack was distracted. As he waited for her to finish eating, he lapsed into silence, and she was seized by a sudden fear that he had tired of her and couldn’t quite bring himself to say so.
Well, if that was the case, there was no point putting it off, she scolded herself. Gripping the stem of her wineglass tightly between her fingers, she asked, “Jack, is something wrong?”
He gave her a startled glance; his gaze strayed to the briefcase he’d left on the table. He frowned. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “No. Yes. I don’t know. There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Winnie’s heart sank, and she braced herself for bad news.
Jack, however, seemed unaware of her discomfort. “Something very odd has been happening to me these past few months, Winnie, and I don’t know what to make of it. I haven’t said anything because … well, I was afraid you’d think I was a bit mad. And because it seemed somehow that telling you would give it a credence I wasn’t willing to acknowledge.”
“What
“I suppose you hear all sorts of odd things.…”
“Mostly ordinary things, really. People worried about their families, illness, debt … Jack, are you in some sort of trouble?”
“Nothing like that. Although that might be easier.” He hesitated a moment longer, then reached for his briefcase and removed a sheet of paper. “Read this.”
She took it curiously. It was an ordinary sheet of foolscap. On it a few Latin phrases had been penned in a small, square hand. Beneath that were parts of sentences scrawled in English, in a hand she recognized instantly as Jack’s.
“What is this?” she asked, looking up at Jack. “Are you translating something?”
“You might say that. Only, I wrote it. Both parts.”
“You wrote the Latin? But that’s not your handwriting. I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, pushing his wineglass aside. “The first few times it happened I had no awareness of it at all—just had to assume I’d written it because there was no other explanation. I had a few stiff drinks after that, I can tell you.
“But now … especially today—with this one”—he touched the page with his fingertip—“it’s like I’m watching myself from a distance, but I feel disconnected from what’s happening.”
“But you understand what you’re writing—”
“No. Not until afterwards. And then I struggle a good bit with the translation.”
