Sidney Chambers and The Dangers of Temptation (17 page)

He had ascertained that Amanda was in Elgol on the south-west of the island but did not know the exact cottage where she was staying. On enquiries, first down at the harbour and then at the little post office, he discovered that she had rented a place on the headland from a woman who used to work the telephone switchboard in a solicitor’s office. It was famous for its sunsets, she said, and had a view straight out to Rum, Eigg and Soay that was both the end of Scotland and the beginning of a new world far out in the Atlantic.

Even though he was almost there, after what must have been a thirteen- or fourteen-hour drive, Sidney had to wait behind a herd of Highland cattle before making his way back up the hill. One of the cows in front of him pissed copiously just to ensure that her visitor had no romantic illusions about the scenery. Sidney then stumbled as he stepped out of the car, his legs weakened by the journey and his senses unused to the proximity of ditches so close to the road.

He opened the gate to the cottage and Amanda heard its creak, coming out to ask him not to let the sheep into the garden before she told him anything else. She looked tired and thinner than he had remembered, and was dressed very simply in jeans, boots and the kind of jumper he had given to the jumble sale.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said after giving him a welcoming but half-hearted kiss. Her voice sounded distant, as if Sidney still hadn’t quite arrived.

‘I’ve brought whisky,’ he said.

‘I’ve already got some. I hoped you’d come. I even prayed.’

‘You were that desperate?’

‘You’re the only friend I can rely on.’

‘You look very well,’ Sidney lied.

‘I know I don’t. But I’m here. And I feel better.’

‘It must be the sea air.’

‘I’ve had to shop for outdoor clothing but it’s hopeless these days; you either have to dress like a teenager or a granny. There’s nothing in between. Not that I need expensive clothes any more. I think I’d rather live simply and like this.’

Sidney took his suitcase from the car and Amanda showed him into the cottage. There were three bedrooms, a small kitchen, bathroom and a living room with an open hearth. A peat fire was burning, even though it was August. ‘I get so cold,’ said Amanda. ‘But it’s cosy being alone.’

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

‘Do you have news of Henry?’

‘I don’t think he will be prosecuted.’

‘Then I’m glad.’

‘He’s worried. He thinks you’re not coming back.’

‘I’m not,’ said Amanda. ‘Is that so very wrong?’

‘You plan to live here?’

‘No, Sidney, I’ll return to London but not to Henry. I need time to think about my life. I want to live differently; to be alone. Have you been instructed to bring me home?’

‘I have come to see you. That is all. My visit has no other purpose.’

‘I hope you can stay for a while. Does Hildegard mind?’

‘Thank you for asking.’

‘I do love her, you know. I hope you realise how lucky you are in having her?’

‘I am very fortunate.’

‘Even if it’s hard sometimes to know what she really thinks. I suppose we all have that in a marriage. Only I wouldn’t want her to disapprove. You would tell me if she did, wouldn’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t be here if she was unhappy about it.’

‘I must write and thank her; although that seems an odd thing to do, I suppose. I don’t really know how to behave any more. How long can you stay?’

‘I’m not sure. I think a couple of days.’

‘You might as well, now you’ve travelled all this way. Would you like something to drink? There’s food too. I haven’t very much, though. I’ve got a little routine going. Cornflakes in the morning; soup, bread and cheese at lunchtime; an omelette at night. One of the farmers brings me milk and eggs. They’re very kind here. Charitable. I’ve been thinking a lot about that.’

‘Living a simpler life.’

‘I don’t know if I can abandon everything; but I think I have to live differently, Sidney. Perhaps charity only means something if you give away so much that your life is altered.’

‘You need to preserve a sense of yourself, Amanda. Perhaps your wealth is what makes you who you are.’

‘But what if I want to be someone else? Don’t we all have enough? Everyone I know is so greedy and so frightened, so
unwilling to make sacrifices. But that’s what your faith is about, isn’t it? Making sacrifices.’

‘I do think we often need to be judged less by what we say and more by what we do. Deeds, not words. The truest test of character is how we behave towards people who can do nothing for us.’

‘I don’t think I can go back to London unless I have changed in some way. And Henry, well, there’s too much to forgive. Do you know that he was spending so much on his first wife that he was starting to hide it from me? That’s what I can’t abide. The drip, drip, drip of his lies. Are you sure he didn’t kill her?’

‘I am. And Geordie thinks so too.’

‘Why did she hate him so much? Was it because of the child? Henry said he had told you about that. I hope he did. If he’s lied about that as well . . .’

‘No. He told me. I wondered if you had suspected something like it?’

‘I think I always knew. It was why Henry was so anti-adoption. He didn’t want to be reminded of it all. Not that he was the one who suffered. It was his wife who went through it all. He’s been such a liar.’

‘I think he was trying to protect you.’

‘I am not a child, Sidney.’

‘I know that.’

‘But I can’t see a way out. Sometimes so many things mount up in front of you that you don’t know where you are. It’s like being here on the island when the clouds come over and you can no longer see the view. It happens so fast.’

‘But there are also times when the sun shines through.’

‘You once said they were “God’s promises”.’

‘An old clergy friend told me that. Children like to hear it.’

‘One has to keep one’s promises, I suppose.’

‘That is the idea.’

‘“For better, for worse . . .”’

‘Unless everything becomes untenable, the situation changes so radically . . .’

‘Which, in my case, it has, I think.’

‘No one would ever say that it’s been easy for you.’

‘We’ve made promises to each other as well, Sidney, haven’t we?’

‘I’m not sure they were
promises
exactly.’

‘Always to be friends.’

‘I know, Amanda . . .’

‘At least we should be able to keep that.’

They went out for a walk on the headland before it was dark. The coastal path took them out towards the Cuillins. The air already had the feel of autumn. The berries in the rowan trees were turning from tangerine to scarlet; the swallows and house martins were searching for late-summer flies; the wind came on across the heather and thistle. It began to rain. Soon it would be night and then, in a few days’ time, they would travel south back to their homes and, for Amanda, a future that was as uncertain as it had ever been. What will she make of her life now, Sidney wondered, and what place will I have in it?

The Return

It was a Tuesday in early September 1968, and Mrs Maguire had summoned Sidney to Grantchester. Rather than meeting at her house, she had requested a rendezvous at the Orchard Tea Rooms. This was odd, as she always disapproved of spending money on something that she could do perfectly well herself, and she hated waste. She also looked smarter than usual and, having been complimented on her appearance, she explained that she was wearing the woollen navy Windsmoor jacket her sister had left her. She had to look her best because something dramatic had happened.

‘It’s my Ronnie,’ she said. ‘He’s come home.’

This was news indeed. Mrs Maguire’s husband had disappeared during the war. Everyone presumed that he had been ‘missing, presumed dead’ but his ‘widow’ was so hazy on the details that Sidney always had the slight suspicion that Ronnie Maguire was still alive. Perhaps he had found a girl in Singapore or South Africa (he had fought with the Cambridgeshire Regiment in the Far East) or he had returned to a mistress and second family back in England? A detailed conversation about the matter had never been encouraged.

‘It’s been twenty-five years. More than the time we were together. I don’t know what to think. I thought he was dead. He just arrived on my doorstep with a suitcase.’

‘Have you asked him where he’s been?’

‘He’s a bit cagey about all that. Tells me he can’t remember everything but hopes it will all come out in time. He says it’s taken him all these years to find a way home. I’m not sure I believe him.’

‘And he’s staying with you?’

‘I’ve put him in my sister’s room. Even though it’s been two years since she died, I’ve only just got used to being alone. It’s very confusing to have a man about the house mucking it all up again.’

‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’

Mrs Maguire was almost afraid to ask. ‘Could you pay us a visit? I’m not sure Ronnie’s quite himself.’

‘Do you mean that you’re not sure it’s really him?’

‘He’s filled out. I suppose we all have. And he’s redder and fuller around the face than he used to be. Breathless too. He was always such a fit man.’

‘I suppose it’s age. None of us are getting any younger, Mrs M.’

‘I know that. But he used to be so handsome. I think he must have let himself go. But there’s more . . .’

‘Something alarming?’

‘I’m not sure. He didn’t recognise the brooch he gave me when we were courting. You know the one? I’ve told you about it.’

It was eleven cultured pearls on a sprig of silver leaves. Mrs Maguire wore it on her best blouses.

‘He also talked about a dance we went to in Great Yarmouth. I’ve never been there in my life. Do you think he might be confusing me with someone else?’

‘That’s possible. Memory can be fickle. But he is definitely your husband?’ Sidney repeated.

‘I’d like to think so,’ Mrs Maguire replied. ‘I do know my Ronnie. He’s just not the man I’m used to. I don’t know whether I’m angry or glad. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to behave.’

‘I suppose it might be a question of how much you’re prepared to forgive,’ said Sidney. ‘When would you like me to come?’

Over a second pint in the Eagle that Thursday evening, Sidney asked Geordie how much he knew about the original disappearance. If Ronnie Maguire had been ‘missing, presumed dead’ then the War Office would have written formally and his widow would be receiving a pension. However, if he were leading a double life somewhere, wouldn’t the police get involved? Bigamy, as far as Sidney knew, was still illegal.

‘But living in sin is not,’ said Geordie.

‘And that’s what he’s been doing?’

‘Sounds like it.’

‘He’s also claiming to have lost a part of his memory.’

‘The convenient bit of his brain that means he doesn’t have to face the music. Once a chancer, always a chancer.’

‘On the other hand, perhaps he had to forget things. I think he was a prisoner of war in Japan. People never like to talk about that.’

‘Well, he wasn’t the only one, Sidney. Do you know what he does for a living?’

‘I think he worked as an accountant. Mrs M once told me he was good with numbers. She never liked to go into details.’

‘Perhaps she knew all along that he wasn’t dead? That might have been easier to tell people rather than the fact that he’d done a runner. Saves face.’

‘I wondered if you could look into the records for me; see if he has any convictions?’

‘The criminal thing he’s done is to leave his wife. Mrs Maguire’s been unhappy for years, hasn’t she?’

‘She’s a good woman, Geordie. She certainly looked after Leonard and me very well.’

‘Only saw one of you married.’

‘Well, Leonard’s not the marrying kind.’

‘Sometimes I don’t think Leonard’s anything at all.’

‘He doesn’t think about that kind of thing.’

‘Perhaps he makes up for those who think about it all the time.’

‘Speak for yourself, Geordie.’

‘I don’t mean me. I’m beyond all that carry-on. And so, presumably, is Ronnie Maguire. What do you think he’s after? Has his missus got any money? That’s the usual line.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s unsettled his wife. She’s spent so long remembering him that I think she’s built him up into a different person altogether.’

Geordie finished his pint. ‘People change over twenty-five years. I know I have.’

Sidney still had a half left. ‘Do you think Cathy would marry you if she met you now?’ he asked.

‘I doubt it. I’d marry her, though. Shall I get a top-up?’

‘I’d better not. I should be getting back.’

‘What about you and Hildegard then?’

‘I’d marry her today.’

‘You don’t ever wonder what it would have been like if you hadn’t met?’

Sidney pushed over his glass. ‘All right. Put another half in that.’ As Geordie stood up, he added: ‘Amanda would never have married me, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘I wasn’t. You mentioned her name.’

‘You know that it was never on the cards. You were there at the time.’

‘Do you think she recognises that she made an almighty mistake?’

‘Henry seemed a decent enough fellow before we realised how evasive he had been about his past. But we’ve all got history.’

‘I don’t mean that. I mean not marrying you when she had the chance.’

‘Perhaps I wouldn’t have married
her
.’

‘Give over, man. Everyone knew you were made for each other.’

‘But it hasn’t turned out like that. And I’m very happy with what I’ve got, thank you very much.’

Geordie went to the bar, paid for the round and returned with the conversation still in his mind. ‘Hildegard’s a good woman, Sidney. No one else would have put up with you. I can’t imagine any old wife letting her husband swan off to Scotland. She must either have complete faith in you or given up on you altogether.’

‘I hope it’s the former. But I wasn’t “swanning”, I’ll have you know. I was persuading a friend to return to her husband.’

‘And did you succeed?’

‘I fear not. Amanda wants a clean break and a new life. She has petitioned for divorce.’

‘At least that’s easier to do these days. I suppose even if she
had
married you the same thing might have happened.’

‘Charming.’

‘That is only my opinion, mind.’

‘Fortunately that situation never arose. In any case, the present circumstances are entirely different; although one has to admit that Amanda’s husband had a secret past just like Ronnie Maguire. We’ve talked about this before, Geordie. If you’re determined not to tell people things, then you have no control over the moment of revelation when it comes. Or the consequences.’

‘Things seldom stay private for ever. I’ll give you that.’

‘Perhaps that’s why Ronnie’s come back? To spit it all out.’

‘I’ve always been interested in the urge to confess, especially towards the end of a life.’ Geordie pulled one of Benson & Hedges’s finest from its packet and lit up. ‘It must happen with you too . . .’

‘People feel the need to make amends; to tidy things up before they go.’

‘But do you think, Sidney, that sometimes they do it because they feel that they haven’t been given enough attention? They’re almost annoyed no one has worked out what’s been going on and they just want to show what they’ve done?’

‘The confession as a type of vanity, you mean?’

‘In criminal cases, yes. People like an audience, the interest taken in them. They are getting the limelight that they previously lacked. They’re also intrigued by police procedure. If
we get involved then it all becomes a show in which they are the star.’

‘Even if they are the villain. Like Milton’s devil getting all the best lines or the baddie in a panto?’

‘I suppose it
is
different with you.’

‘When people tell me things?’ Sidney looked at his pint of beer as if it might provide the answer, took a hearty swig that drained the glass, and gave his reply. ‘I try to give people the benefit of the doubt and hope they are just wanting to put things right. It’s dealing with your own shame. But that too can be a kind of selfishness.’

‘And do you think that’s what Ronnie Maguire is doing?’

‘I’ll just have to ask him.’

‘You’ve got yourself involved?’

‘It’s Mrs Maguire, Geordie. When I think of all that she has done for me, I can hardly stand aside. I don’t want to see her hurt. She’s a proud woman; and although she has a confident look to the world, she’s as scared as the rest of us underneath it all.’

‘You don’t have to do it.’

‘She asked me. It’s absolutely my duty, Geordie. If I don’t help her, if I don’t sit with her and alongside her when she has asked for my assistance, then what kind of Christian am I?’

Mrs Maguire thought it best if Sidney first met Ronnie over tea. She would bake both scones and one of her walnut specials; a cake that he had had to wait nearly two years to sample when she was working for him in the vicarage at Grantchester. Perhaps, Sidney wondered, the woman for whom Ronnie had left his wife was a terrible cook and now that her physical
charms were waning he had resorted to Wife Number One for culinary comfort?

The tidiness of the thatched house, the aroma of baking, the Michaelmas daisies in the cottage garden at the front and the welcoming atmosphere would have made any Cambridge estate agent gasp. Sidney complimented his former employee on all that she had done and was greeted with the matter-of-fact reply: ‘I am not prejudiced, but I think cleanliness should come naturally.’

Ronnie was waiting in the sitting room. Although fuller in the figure and prone to breathlessness, he had once been a handsome man and still possessed a firm handshake and a twinkle of mischief about the eyes. His thick grey hair and well-maintained beard made him look a little like a Van Dyck painting. He was not tall but carried himself with an air of assurance that was good for another two or three inches. He had also made an effort with his appearance: a navy-blue blazer with a crimson pocket handkerchief, grey flannel trousers and a Cromer Golf Club tie. Sidney noticed that his cufflinks matched his blazer buttons.

Mrs Maguire busied herself in the kitchen; setting out the scones and insisting that the tea take five minutes to brew properly. It gave the men time to introduce themselves. Sidney ventured that he was glad to meet a man he had heard so much about.

‘I’m staying in her sister Gladys’s old room while she works out what to do with me,’ Ronnie began.

‘I think she will be quite cautious. She’s always been careful of her reputation.’

‘Sylvia’s frightened of people thinking badly of her. I remember how she always used to worry if she’d done something wrong.’

‘She likes to know what the rules are so she can follow them,’ said Sidney. ‘And she expects everyone else to do the same.’

‘She hated it at school if the teacher told her off for anything. We were in the same class when we started. It was 1906. Can you believe that? Things were so different when we were young.’

‘We used to buy sweets at Percy Noble’s hut,’ said Mrs Maguire, coming in with the tea tray. ‘It was a tiny shop that sold newspapers, magazines, sweets, cigarettes and minerals, and, Saturday afternoons, cups of tea. Across the road was Smith’s, the local carpenter’s that doubled up as the undertaker; they still had the village stocks in a shed at the back.’

‘There was this one hot summer,’ Ronnie continued, ‘and a rick of clover and lucerne was set up in the field. It had been damp when they stacked it, but then it gradually heated up inside and burst into flame. It smelled like sweet coffee. I always used to feel sad at the end of summer because I had to go back to school, but as I got older I liked the misty autumn mornings, the flat-racing season, the smell of woodsmoke and beer by the fire. Do you remember, Sylvia, when we first went to the races? We played truant from school.’

Mrs Maguire poured out the tea and handed round the scones. She did not need to ask either man whether he took milk or sugar. ‘It must have been a Saturday,’ she answered. ‘I never missed a day except when I had mumps.’

‘It was a Thursday, in fact, just before the Great War. We were twelve or thirteen. I remember it was after the suffragette threw herself under the king’s horse, a couple of years before they switched the Derby to Newmarket. It must have been October. At any rate it was cold; I remember that. You had a new red scarf, Sylvia. We got the bus with my elder brother,
looked at horses in the Birdcage and watched by the Ditch Mile in the Nursery. You remember?’

‘Can’t say I do.’

‘My brother teased you because one of the horses was called Greedy Girl. You liked White Star. Frank put money on Radway. He was dead two years later. I think it must have been the last time he went to the races.’

‘You must have gone with someone else, Ronnie.’

‘It was with you, Sylvia, I promise.’

‘I think you must have been with Nancy Spooner.’

‘I didn’t. I promise. It was you.’

Mrs Maguire checked that no one needed more tea. ‘Nancy Spooner. I had trouble seeing that one off, Sidney, I can tell you. I remember the dance when she made a play for you, Ronnie.’