Letters to the Lost (7 page)

Such was his attitude of despair that she’d spoken his name and gone towards him, ready to put her arms around him and hold him. But as she approached and saw that his eyes were closed, his lips moving, she’d realized that he was praying. Nancy was her best friend; there was nothing they didn’t know about each other, but Stella would never be able to tell her about what happened next. About the moment when she’d touched him and he’d opened his eyes and seen her, and recoiled in distaste.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said stiffly afterwards. ‘It was unexpected, that’s all. Seeing you dressed like . . . like
that
.’

Stella had been too miserable and humiliated to say anything, least of all that ‘that’ was exactly how she’d thought most husbands would expect their brides to dress on the wedding night.

The next day she had started her monthly, which had also been embarrassing but had at least taken the pressure off the remainder of the honeymoon, which they’d spent walking along the seafront, exploring Brighton’s churches and – one afternoon – going to a tea dance in the hotel, for all the world like any newly married couple. At night they’d lain side by side in the bed like effigies on a tomb.

She jumped as the study door opened and voices spilled out into the hallway. ‘Glad to have got it sorted, Charles. It seems like a satisfactory outcome all round, but let me know if there are any problems your end.’

The rich tones of the bishop. Hovering behind the dining-room door, Stella tugged at the bow of her apron. Should she go out? Surely a good clergy wife would be there to open the door, make gracious pleasantries. She racked her brain for a single gracious pleasantry, but was distracted by Charles’s voice. ‘Thank you for your time and understanding in this matter, Bishop. You’ve been very accommodating.’

‘Not at all, not at all . . . These are difficult times and we must all serve in the way we best see fit. I know this isn’t something you’ve undertaken lightly. Your courage is to be commended, Charles. My regards to Mrs Thorne.’

Stella went into the hallway just as the bishop went out, so all she saw of him was a flash of silvery hair before Charles shut the door. In the light from the study Stella saw that his face had lost some of the tension that had shadowed it for the last weeks. His expression was softer, more thoughtful . . . until he looked up and saw her standing there, when it became suddenly wary.

‘Good meeting?’

‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’

‘Supper won’t be long. I’ve laid the table in the dining room. I thought we could—’

She stopped as Reverend Stokes appeared in the study doorway.

‘Marvellous,’ Charles said, in his hearty, public voice. ‘I’ve invited Ernest to stay. I hope that’s not a problem?’

In the kitchen Stella vented her frustration on the potatoes, mashing them into a pulp to stretch them as far as possible. As if any casually invited dinner guest wasn’t a problem these days! The beef that would have fed two indulgently looked meagre when shared between three plates, but even more upsetting than the disruption to her menu was the ruination of her plans for the evening. Music and candles. Talking in the soft circle of firelight. They could still do that with Reverend Stokes there, but the conversation wouldn’t be what she had in mind. It would be conducted at exhausting, ear-splitting volume for a start.

She could hear Charles’s unnaturally raised voice as she carried the tray of plates through from the kitchen. He was talking about the parish. ‘It’s hardly prosperous, but the people here have enough to get by. They’re decent, hard-working folk who don’t mind doing their bit. They don’t go in much for prayer groups, but the Mothers’ Union is well supported, and the W.I. And there’s a very productive Ladies’ Sewing Circle, isn’t there, darling?’

Caught in the spotlight of his rather forced smile, she had no choice but to swallow her sulk and reply, which annoyed her further because there was nothing to say but ‘yes’. She set the plates on the table, placing the smallest portion by far in her own place.

‘This looks delicious, my dear,’ Reverend Stokes said, rubbing his hands together. ‘But are you not hungry?’

‘Shall I say Grace?’ Charles said, quickly. As they all bent their heads he caught her eye and gave her a grateful smile.

It nourished her more than any feast.

By the time she had served the crumble – in teacups, to disguise how little there was – Stella’s head was throbbing, but the shared effort of maintaining conversation had forged a fragile bond between her and Charles. Escaping back to the kitchen to make coffee she leaned against the sink and closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment of hope. It hadn’t been the intimate evening she’d imagined, but she felt closer to him than she had in a long time. Perhaps this was what marriage was about? Not melting movie kisses or silk nighties, but something more real and meaningful; shared endeavour, joint goals. Maybe when Reverend Stokes had finally gone they could laugh about the teacup puddings and the fact that he thought her name was Sheila, and tonight the space in the bed between them wouldn’t seem like such an arctic wasteland.

Taking a deep breath she carried the coffee through to the sitting room, where Reverend Stokes was now ensconced in the most comfortable chair nearest the fire. Stella hoped that didn’t mean he would be tempted to stay longer. Surely he must be getting bored with hearing about the minutiae of running St Crispin’s by now?

‘Of course, there’s no evensong service now, because of the blackout,’ Charles was saying, ‘but the Sunday morning service is always well attended. People like the sermons to be short but uplifting.’

Stella settled into the corner of the sofa and sipped her coffee. Charles had struggled with ‘uplifting’ lately, often staying up into the early hours of Sunday morning to produce a sermon that struck the right note. At least that’s what he told her he was doing. On those nights he came quietly up the stairs and passed her door on his way to the box room at the end of the landing and, lying beneath the smooth sheets of their marriage bed, she wondered whether avoiding her was also part of his plan.

After what seemed like an eternity, Reverend Stokes hauled himself creakily from the depths of his chair and announced that he must be on his way. As Charles went in search of his coat the Reverend’s damp eyes rested on Stella.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening and a splendid supper, my dear. The first of many, I hope.’

‘Oh . . . yes, I do hope so,’ Stella stammered. Funny how she seemed to lie far more often now she was a vicar’s wife than she ever had before. ‘You’re very welcome any time.’

Charles returned, winding a scarf around his own neck too. He glanced uneasily at Stella before holding out the other man’s coat. ‘Here, Ernest. I’ll walk you down to the bus stop. Make sure you don’t get lost in the blackout.’

She was washing the dishes in the kitchen when he came back. She heard the front door shut and glanced at the clock above the cooker. Almost nine; if she was quick she could finish clearing up in time to listen to the news on the wireless with him. Sometimes she thought she’d rather not know about the misery unfolding across the world but she knew that Charles liked to stay informed of all the latest developments in the war, with so many boys in the parish and now Peter Underwood out there on active service. It seemed a small thing to do to listen to it with him. She ran water into the enamel casserole dish in which she’d cooked the beef; it would be best left to soak overnight.

‘Thank you.’

She jumped as Charles’s voice broke the sudden silence when the tap was turned off. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her. Something about his expression made her heart lurch slightly.

‘It’s all right . . . At least, I hope it was. There wasn’t much food.’

‘My fault.’ He came forward, pushing the lock of hair back from his forehead in a gesture she had come to recognize as nervousness. ‘I should have given you more notice.’

He unhooked the tea towel and stood, holding it awkwardly as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. ‘I need to talk to you. There’s something else I should have given you more notice about.’

Stella’s heart had begun to beat very hard; a warning drum, although against what danger she couldn’t imagine. The word ‘divorce’ flashed into her head, but she instantly dismissed it. Charles would never countenance breaking asunder what God had put together.

‘Sit down.’

She sat obediently, thinking of the fire burning in the other room – all that precious fuel – and the wireless, and the news. He remained standing, pacing across the small kitchen, twisting the tea towel between his hands.

‘Charles, you’re worrying me. What’s the matter? Is it something about the meeting – you’ve been moved to a different parish—’

As the idea occurred it took root, so that she was already beginning to think through the implications, looking for possible reasons why he might be breaking it to her like it was bad news. Nancy, obviously; if it was somewhere far away – Scotland perhaps, or the wilds of Cornwall – it would be hard not being able to see her, but other than that . . .

‘Not quite.’ He sighed and sat down opposite, clasping his hands together and dropping his forehead down onto them for a moment. Then he looked at her, with a directness that was both resigned and slightly challenging.

‘The thing is . . . I’ve joined up. I know that as a clergyman I didn’t have to, but I felt I couldn’t not, you see.’ He smiled sadly, imploring her with his eyes. ‘You’re looking at the Reverend Charles Thorne, Chaplain to the Forces, 4th Class. I’m to report for duty at Chester in ten days’ time.’

He was waiting for her to say something, but her mind was blank with shock, echoing with silence as if in the aftermath of an explosion. Which, in a way, it was, she thought numbly.

A direct hit at the heart of her marriage.

‘It has not been easy. I have searched my soul and spent many long nights questioning God about this path that He has set me on. I would not be being honest with you if I said that I was not afraid, was not unwilling, was not
desperate
for God to tell me that there was another way in which I could serve Him – here, in King’s Oak, with those I care for . . .’

Sitting in her usual pew Stella was suddenly reminded of Chamberlain’s speech on the wireless at the start of the war. She wondered if Charles was about to say, ‘No such undertaking has been received,’ and had to press her hand to her mouth to stifle the hideous threat of laughter. Since that night in the kitchen it was as if her emotional switchboard was being manned by an incompetent operator, who kept plugging in the wrong responses.

‘But God’s purpose is clear,’ Charles concluded solemnly from the pulpit. ‘I have heard His call, and I have answered it.’

His arms were braced against the pulpit’s wooden rim, and as he finished speaking he dropped his head down, allowing the full impact of his words to sink into the stunned congregation. For once, no one shuffled impatiently or knitted or dozed. Glancing surreptitiously around, Stella could see that the news had taken them as much by surprise as it had her. Only Reverend Stokes, sitting beside her as Charles’s successor, appeared unruffled. Possibly he was so deaf he hadn’t heard a word.

It was a powerful sermon, well delivered. For a moment, looking at the shaft of autumn sunlight falling on Charles’s bent head she was relieved to feel a glimmer of the pride and aching concern she knew were more appropriate feelings for a wife whose husband was going to war than the bewilderment, hurt and anger she’d been guiltily lugging around all week like a suitcase full of dirty laundry.

‘Let us pray.’

There was a rustling and creaking as, like sleepwalkers stirring, everyone shuffled forward onto their knees. Stella folded her hands together but kept her eyes open, staring at the spots on her dress.

‘Almighty and most merciful Father, who sees all things and knows the secrets of our hearts, we pray to you for those who must fight, even when to do so goes against that which they believe in and takes them far away from those they hold dear. We pray also for them – the people left behind – whose courage, faith, steadfastness and devotion are equally tested, and ask that you watch over them. Keep them safe in body, strong in spirit, sure in the knowledge of your love.’

It’s not God’s love I want to be sure in the knowledge of, Stella thought bitterly as the white spots danced in front of her stinging eyes. It’s my husband’s.

That night he came to bed earlier than usual. Stella was still reading – a novel about a nurse and an airman that she’d got from St Crispin’s informal lending library, which was a shifting population of tattered paperbacks on a shelf in the flower arranging cupboard – when she heard him come upstairs and go into the bathroom. She was instantly catapulted out of a drowsy dream-world halfway between waking and sleeping, where the airman (George) had just pulled the nurse (Marcia) against his hard chest and kissed her ‘with unrestrained desire’.

She heard the WC flush, water running into the sink, then the bathroom door opened. This time his footsteps didn’t pass her bedroom door. He came in, glancing at her uncertainly as he went round to his side of the bed.

‘I’m awake.’ She shut the book and put it, cover side down, on the bedside table. Charles had never said anything but she sensed his disapproval of her reading choices. Beside his pillow was a Bible, and a slim volume of poetry by Oscar Wilde, which Peter Underwood had given to them as a wedding present. It seemed an odd gift to Stella but she could tell that it meant a lot to Charles.

‘I thought it was time I had an early night.’

In the light of the green-frilled bedside lamp his face was unreadable, but she detected a faintly questioning note in his voice. Beneath the heavy layers of sheets and blankets her body leapt to life, the blood quickening and fizzing in her veins, heat spreading across her skin so that her flannelette nightie felt like a straitjacket. Was this it? She wished she’d had a chance to prepare; to dab on some of the scent Nancy had given her for her birthday last year. But maybe she was reading too much into his words – after her error of judgement on their wedding night she didn’t trust herself to read the signs. Maybe he was simply tired.