Cold to the Touch (5 page)

D
on’t get angry with God, get even with everyone else.

Great wits are sure to madness near allied
 . . .
and thin partitions do their bounds divide.

He was trying to whistle. The Reverend Andrew Sullivan, vicar of the parish, had a headache, made worse by the bleak sun of this spring morning, and it was not a condition alleviated by prayer. The headache was due to alcohol and the resentment he felt towards his own fatigue had no shame attached. The wine had been excellent and he was in a state of grief because there was no more of that kind left to follow. Andrew Sullivan needed more than the forgiveness of God: he needed oxygen, and he pulled his dark glasses over his eyes and headed uphill for the fields. The brightness of the sea would be too much today, tempting him to walk straight over the cliff and plunge into it. The glorious memory of first-class wine might turn him into Icarus.

He had one whole hour to liberate his soul before meeting a small group of pre-school children in church. After that, he had to be ready. They deserved better; they were the high point of his week.

The path to the church led uphill from the bottom of the main road, just where the road itself curved sharply. It was difficult for a car to negotiate, let alone a wheelchair. The church was the last seaside outpost of the village, apart from the two rows of houses stretching out below on the flat land adjoining the shingle beach, the alternative village, part of it but divorced from it, with its own seaside pub and separate life. No one ever came to church from those two rows of largely second homes, but they attended the butcher assiduously, on Saturdays. Andrew thought that the butcher had a better chance of saving souls than he had, although he might also propel his customers towards heaven or hell by encouraging them to eat so much cholesterol-rich meat. Andrew walked uphill briskly away from the sea. He preferred it at a distance.

Kiddies’ club at eleven on Fridays. In a better mood now, he thought that the under-fives were an absolute joy, making him feel as broody as a mother hen. All he ever did with them was tell them stories. Leaving that aside, there were too many children in this village as well as too many dogs.

Clear of the trees that backed onto the churchyard, facing the expanse of the meadow, he paused in irritation. There was someone on the path ahead of him – that bloody woman, ambling along as if she had all the time in the world, which she probably had, dreaming about the countryside as if she had newly discovered it while this was
his
walk,
his
place during weekday mornings at least, his very own path. The trouble with being a vicar, even in his non-vicar-like dress of jeans, walking boots and shades, was that he was still the vicar. Which meant he could not ignore people: he would have to say hello when he drew level, and people, in their turn, would expect his whole attention. They could be rude and demanding, while he could not. It was as if they paid his wages.

Still, he was curious about her, even if irritated this morning. She was new to the village, like plenty of others, but with the difference that she walked all over the place, apparently aimlessly and without the usual alibi of walking the dog, the husband, the child. She had no other props, like a sketchbook or a map, and was entirely unselfconscious. He had spotted her at the back of the church once. She had not stayed to shake hands.

‘Good morning!’

Oh Lord, he was as bad as anyone else, putting on the bonhomie as if he had been sent from a casting agency to play the vicar in a pantomime, conforming so easily to the clichés he despised. Hearty, gay vicar, forever interested in all
the forms of humanity that the village could afford, even the Widow Hurly who owned so much and acted as if she owned it all.

‘Good morning,’ Sarah said. ‘Lovely day.’ Then she gave him a wave, as if ushering him past her, out of the way, clearly not expecting him to stop and without any wish to make his acquaintance. Perversely, that irritated him too, so he fell into step beside her. It was an awkward step, forcing him to abandon the narrow path that was only wide enough for single file and stumble along beside her on the field. He looked at her feet, approving of her hiking boots, although not of the full skirt which billowed round her calves.

‘A perfectly lovely day, I agree,’ he said, willing himself to believe it. ‘About time we had a day like this. Good for the soul, don’t you think?’

She stopped abruptly. He stopped, too.

‘Look, vicar, you don’t have to interrupt your walk, you know. You don’t have to talk to me just because I’m here. And you’ll need to walk faster than I do.’

She was shooing him on, he realised, giving him the chance to stride ahead and her to watch his backside. Staying or moving were equally embarrassing options. She smiled at him and he found himself laughing. She was rather beautiful when she smiled.

‘I’d like to walk a way with you, if you don’t mind,’ he said, surprising himself not only by saying it but by meaning it. They walked on, harmoniously.

‘Is there a code for those who walk out by themselves?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps there should be. You know, a certain kind of nod or wink that indicates you’re not going to stop. Perhaps a way of carrying a walking stick or wearing a hood. So, if you’re carrying a stick you put it over your shoulder to indicate you
don’t even want to say hello, let alone pass the time of day. Or you’d know, by the same code, not to talk to anyone who put their hood up as soon as they saw you.’

‘I hate wearing any kind of hat,’ Andrew said. ‘Even in the rain. Makes me feel as if I’m in blinkers and I can’t see properly. You’re right, though a code without words, like traffic lights, might dictate a certain walking uniform to be worn on all occasions and I’m not sure about that.’

‘Nor me,’ she said. ‘Fancy having to dress up before going for a walk and remembering the hood and the stick. And does one have to exchange names with someone you meet on a walk, like today? I always thought not, as long as you remember the name of the dog.’

Apart from the boots, she was clearly not dressed for walking, or perhaps, on reflection, she was, striding out in that full skirt on a windless day like this. The soft wool jacket would absorb water like a sponge and looked as if it would be more at home indoors and the scarf was frankly frivolous. She looked as if she had come out in the nearest clothes to hand, fresh from bed. She would blow away like thistledown on the cliffs.

‘No names, no pack drill,’ he agreed. ‘Although that gives you an advantage over me, because you know I’m the vicar and I don’t know who you are.’

‘All right, I’ve seen you in a dog collar but that doesn’t mean I know who you are. It means you’re inhibited by having an identity while I’m not. I can say what I like.’

‘And I can’t?’

‘No, you can’t. You can’t say fuck off out of my way, because you
are
the vicar.’

Sarah shoved her hands in the pockets of her skirt and grinned across at him. The path turned north across the field
and became broader underfoot so that they could walk more easily, side by side. Andrew found he was enjoying himself. The further he was away from the church the better he felt.

‘You’re dead right, of course,’ he said. ‘I can never say exactly what I want as long as I’m talking to anyone who lives in the vicinity. I have to do vicar-speak, and express interest and concern, in case anyone detects my deep-rooted frivolity. In the same way, most people have reservations when they speak to me. They always have to include the fact that they don’t believe in God but think He’s by and large a very good thing.’

‘We will not mention God, the devil and all his works,’ Sarah said solemnly.

‘The best conversations happen between strangers on trains, don’t you think?’ Andrew said. ‘Until one finds out what the other does, and then all sorts of prejudices and I-don’t-like-people-like-you come into it. Better to be ignorant, uninhibited strangers?’

‘Why not? Suits me. I could forget you were a priest and make up a whole new identity for you on a clean slate. You could be the freak who goes for a walk without a dog, the terrorist in hiding, the subversive, the serial rapist on the run, the celebrity in retreat, the reformed gangster, the embroidery specialist, that sort of thing. Any preference?’

‘Not really. Pretty standard prototypes, really. They probably all live here already, anyhow.’

‘But no one quite like you?’

He sighed.

‘No, there’s only one vicar with the burden of a blameless past.’

They had reached the top of the hill, out of the safety of the valley, facing the track over the next field. The sea was to
the right, calm and sparkling, the church and village below hidden by trees and the landscape ahead nothing but another field and a copse.

‘Whoever I am,’ he said. ‘I think I hate this place.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘No, you don’t, vicar. There simply isn’t enough venom in your voice. Hatred’s too strong. Perhaps it simply eludes you.’

She turned by the stile that led to the next field and climbed over it nimbly.

‘Having a hangover doesn’t help,’ she added.

He ran to catch up with her as she raced ahead.

‘Whoa! Slow down. What are you, a witch?’

‘No more than you’re a wizard, vicar, and you might try sucking a peppermint before getting close to the congregation. Or take off the dark glasses – the sun’s not that bright. Shall we sit?’

She had been aiming for the bench at the top of the field, speeding up in order to sit down, which suited him fine. She looked so languid that he had not thought her capable of sprinting. He was out of breath and she was not.

‘How nice of someone to put a bench here,’ she said, giving him time to recover, patting the seat beside her. ‘Have you read the inscription?
In memory of Harold Cley, who loved this view.
I tried to find him in the churchyard but I couldn’t. Is that some big family name round here, or was he simply passing through slowly?’

Andrew was ashamed that he had never noticed the inscription on the bench, or taken much notice of the names on the gravestones either. In three years here he had never thought the history of the place went anywhere near explaining it. If there were dynasties here, other than the Hurlys, they were surely long gone.

‘Do you have a particular liking for this spot, that you run towards it?’

‘Of course. It’s the only place to sit in half a mile, which makes it its own reward. It’s a destination but, more than that, it’s probably the best view of the village. An incomplete view – they all are – but this one isn’t quite as infuriatingly incomplete as the others. I’ve tried it from all sides, still can’t get a handle on it, but if I was planning a heist or an invasion I might start here. Or there.’ She pointed to the other side of the valley, beyond the buildings, ‘Or there.’

‘
Were
you planning an invasion?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ she said seriously, ‘I’m deciding whether to invade or retreat.’

‘Wish I had the choice. No, not really. There’s too much to do here, but the option to retreat would be comforting.’

‘That magic word,
choice.
Don’t like it. Anyway, do you need it? I hear you’ve done magnificent things since you’ve been here, massive achievements with the church, doubled the congregation.’

‘Who told you that? You’ve only been to church once. I saw you.’

The breeze blew Sarah’s hair across her face. ‘A woman I was sitting next to in the hairdresser next to the butcher’s told me – well, she didn’t tell me exactly, she was talking to someone else, shouting, really.’

‘One of those grey-rinse arguments?’

‘No, I think the other one was deaf. Anyway, the first one said how the vicar had done wonders by going back to traditions and concentrating on the music and, against all the odds, it made people go more. She was pretty mean about the last vicar before you, a “happy-clappy” sort of chap who had them all hugging one another and it didn’t work.’

Andrew shuddered and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head.

‘He fancied himself as more of a counsellor and, oh God, they made such miserable sounds, that congregation, all five of them. Fancy getting them strumming guitars and humming when there’s a perfectly good organ; he even abandoned the choir, the vandal – I’ve only just got it back. People like to
sing.
The last vicar believed that his ministry was all about personal engagement with lost souls, one at time. He wanted people to confide in him. Me, I only joined the church for the music, you see, although I do like the frocks.’ He sighed. ‘So far, so good, but getting the pews out of there and making it more of a concert hall, well, that will set the cat among the pigeons, even though the acoustics are marvellous. Sorry, I’m going on.’

‘I like
going on.
Meeting place, centre for music, what other things would you do?’

Andrew waved his arms, embracing his own ideas. ‘Parties, concerts, raves in church, with quality control, of course. Buddhist feasts and Hindu festivals, the Chinese New Year, all suitably accompanied. Visiting sopranos, tenors with attitude, pantomimes, theatrical extravaganzas . . .’

‘A
son et lumière
in the graveyard on the summer solstice,’ Sarah said. ‘A formal blessing of the sea, with cannons and orchestra. Feasting and jousting to music. And, as a sideline, the vicarage restyled as a glamorous knocking shop to raise funds.’

‘Yes, YES!’ He clapped his hands. ‘I particularly like the last. A work-creation scheme. First, they sin, then I absolve them, then they sin again. We could really do with a lot more sin, and the vicarage is
so
gloomy. I can’t afford a decorator, can’t afford anything. I’m over-housed and underpaid, you see.’

‘I’ll do it,’ she said.

He stopped abruptly.

‘Do what?’

‘Paint the vicarage walls.’

‘Why the hell should you do that?’

‘Because I’m underemployed and I need something to do.’

He paused. This was a gift horse, staring him in the mouth. ‘Are you running away from something?’

She considered the question.