‘I’ll call you from the road. You watch your back, hear me?’
Chapter Six
Sometime before sunrise, Ben flipped himself out of the comfortable bed in the Arundels’ guest annexe, stretched and warmed his muscles and dropped down to the floor to knock out fifty press-ups without a break. He followed those up with fifty sit-ups, and was about to go straight into another set of press-ups when he heard the unmistakable throaty engine note of the Lotus from outside. He rubbed condensation off the window pane and peered out to see Simeon’s taillights exiting the vicarage gates. It seemed the vicar was off to an early start this morning.
The thoughts that had been swirling around Ben’s mind before he’d finally drifted off to sleep the night before were still lingering. The life that Simeon and Michaela had created for themselves here in this serene heart of rural England had made a strong impression on him, and he couldn’t stop thinking about how a life like that might have been possible for him, once, too. There’d been a time, many years ago, when he couldn’t have imagined his future any other way.
As he’d done so often in the past, Ben tried to imagine himself in the role of a clergyman. The ivy-clad vicarage, the dog collar, the whole works. Ben Hope, pastor and shepherd of the weak, beacon of virtue and temperance.
The fantasy had always been there, but it was a self-image he’d never found it easy to believe in with all his heart. If he was a Christian himself, he was an extremely lapsed one — and it had been that way for much too long. Compared to the blazing supernova of Simeon’s faith, Ben’s was a guttering candle. He seldom prayed with anything approaching conviction, even more seldom picked up a Bible. The old leather-bound King James Version he’d hung onto for years had ended up being tossed out of the window of a moving car on a road in rural Montana; it had been a long time before Ben had come round to regretting his rash action.
And yet faith, of some kind, was something that had never quite left Ben — although whenever he tried to ponder on its nature, as he did now, he was left with only the vaguest, cloudiest impression of the strange yearning he felt somewhere deep inside, at the core of his being. Some indefinable sense that one day, maybe, he could find peace within himself. That one day, a guiding hand would appear out of the darkness to steer him on the right path.
Ben closed his eyes, and for a brief moment he had a vision of himself, a different Ben Hope altogether, living this serene, idyllic life, with Brooke by his side.
The vision made him flinch and open his eyes again. He cursed himself for allowing such a hopelessly absurd and romantic notion to enter his head. Brooke as a vicar’s wife — it was nuts. She was as different from Michaela as Ben was from Simeon. She’d have laughed in his face at the very idea of it.
Brooke would probably never want to see him again anyway.
‘You’re a fool, Ben Hope,’ he said out loud. He chased away the darkness in his mind with more rapid-fire press-ups, eighty of them without a rest, so that his muscles screamed and his T-shirt clung damply to his skin.
After a cool shower, he dressed and stepped outside into the frosty dawn and crossed the yard to where the Land Rover was parked. ‘Let’s see if we can’t figure you out,’ he muttered, raising the battered matt-green bonnet lid and preparing to get his hands dirty.
He’d been there quite some time before he heard the footsteps on the gravel and looked up to see Michaela approaching, a mug of something hot and steaming in her hand.
‘Brought you coffee,’ she said, setting the mug down on the Landy’s wing. ‘You’re covered in grime.’ She reached over to Ben’s face, touched his cheek, looked at her blackened fingertips and grimaced. ‘Yuck. Any joy?’
‘Jeff was right,’ Ben said. ‘I shouldn’t have come in Le Crock.’
Michaela had the decency not to rub salt into Ben’s wounds by mentioning old bangers again. ‘Can you fix it?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder into the rusty engine compartment.
‘Not without a spare part or two,’ Ben said.
‘Worry about it later. Come inside and I’ll make you the best scrambled eggs you’ve ever had in your life.’
‘Coffee’s fine for me,’ he protested.
‘I insist. You’re officially on holiday, after all. And it’s all beautiful fresh local produce. The eggs are just a day old, courtesy of our neighbours, the Dorans. You can’t possibly refuse.’
Ben relented. Scrubbed clean and tucking into a plate of what were indeed the most delicious scrambled eggs he’d ever tasted — just a smidgen of organic butter, just a pinch of sea salt, a little fresh-ground pepper — he said, ‘Simeon was off early this morning.’
‘He had to drive into Oxford for a radio interview,’ Michaela said, sipping her tea. The eggs were all for Ben. Trying to diet, she’d said.
‘You weren’t kidding about him being a celebrity.’
‘Man on a mission. Fighting a one-man war against the decline of the Church.’
‘Is it declining that much?’ Ben asked.
‘You’re a little out of the loop, aren’t you?’
‘Just a little,’ Ben admitted. But he’d seen the signs, in France as well as in England. The chains and padlocks on the church gates. The silent bell towers. Buildings falling into decay, with grids over the windows to stop the vandals smashing the stained glass, whose beauty few people seemed to appreciate any more.
‘Simeon’s determined to bring youth and vigour back to the Christian faith. That’s how he puts it. Heaven knows, it needs someone with his dynamism to give it a shot in the arm, or else it’s just going to crumble away to nothing before too long, the whole institution and its churches to boot. When Simeon’s father passed away three years ago he left him almost four hundred thousand pounds. Simeon donated every penny of it towards church restoration projects. But as he says, churches are worth nothing without the people inside them. So he fights, and he fights, and he never stops. Twelve hours is a relaxing day for him. When he isn’t in church, it’s one radio interview after another, as well as the odd television appearance. His blog. His podcasts. Anything he can do to raise the profile of Christianity for a modern audience, he throws himself into it with a passion you wouldn’t believe.’
‘He’s a hard-working guy,’ Ben said through a mouthful of egg.
‘You have no idea, Ben. Gone are the days when a vicar only had his own cosy little corner to tend to. The C of E is so strapped for cash, old vicars being pensioned off all over the place and a shortage of new recruits, that Simeon now has three churches to look after, and he’s constantly zapping about from one to the other. Some of his colleagues have even more, but none of them has managed to boost attendance the way he has. He’s amazing. How he still finds the time to research his book is beyond me.’
‘What’s he writing about?’ Ben asked as he helped to clear up the breakfast dishes.
‘I only know the title,’ Michaela said, piling plates in the cupboard. ‘And then only because Simeon accidentally left the draft title page lying on his desk one day. He’s calling it The Sacred Sword.’
‘Interesting,’ Ben said.
‘And more than a little mysterious,’ Michaela added wryly. ‘He never stopped prattling on about his first two books while he was working on them. I could almost have written them myself, he told me so much. But this one… let’s just say he’s being extremely secretive. He’s taken to locking his study door when he’s not around. Even bought a safe to keep his notes in. And that time he accidentally left the printout lying around, he burned it afterwards. I don’t think he’s printed off a page of it since.’
‘Maybe he thinks he’s onto a hot bestseller,’ Ben said.
‘It’s not just the book. He spends hours on the phone to people all over the world, then refuses to tell me what it was about. Even when he went to America to meet some “expert” he wouldn’t tell me why, or who the man was, not even his name. I think it was him who phoned last night, in the wee small hours. I didn’t bother asking Simeon about it this morning, although he seemed very preoccupied and I can only assume it was to do with the phone call. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he’ll tell me one day, when he’s ready to.’
