The Benefits of Passion (12 page)

The college bar was in the cellar. She went down the steps into the smoky, crowded room. Her group was squashed round a table in the corner. Edward was with them. Good. She began to make her way between people. He caught sight of her and got to his feet. She froze. William was there.

‘Have a seat, Annie,' Edward was ordering her. The group squeezed up. She cast William a pleading look, but he stared blankly as though they had never met. Edward gestured for her to sit. ‘William, you remember Annie?' She sat beside him.

‘Should I?' he drawled.

‘You met at the theatre.'

‘Oh, yes.' His tone was bored.

Annie forced herself to smile. Edward was hovering, waiting for her to launch into bright chatter, but she could think of nothing to say. William turned and resumed his conversation with Isobel.

‘What would you like to drink?' asked Edward.

‘Grapefruit juice, please.' She was left fiddling with a beermat, trying to look composed. She'd never understood before how wounding a well-administered snub could be.

‘“Shop assistant required. Must be flexible,”' said Ted, leaning across the table. He'd been watching her over his ale.

‘“All tights and stockings down,”' she replied, hoping he had noticed nothing. Ted was an expert in the fluctuations in female happiness. He'd probably witnessed his daughters making themselves endlessly unhappy over unfeeling men. Edward returned with her drink. She supposed she should be grateful that William had told him nothing. Perhaps he was covering for her? Had he foreseen how awful it would be for her if Edward suddenly demanded, ‘Why didn't you tell me you'd had lunch with William? Eh? Well?' She sipped her grapefruit juice.

Edward sat down and Annie was crushed up closer against William. She could hear Isobel talking about opera. William was being
perfectly civil
. Annie glanced and saw a faint glow on Isobel's cheeks. Then Ingram cast in his two-pennyworth about Verdi, and William withdrew from the conversation. Annie stared down at her glass. The ice began to clink as her hand trembled. Was William watching her? They were thigh to thigh.

‘Annie was in Bishopside yesterday,' remarked Edward.

‘Was she?' It was said in the same snubbingly casual tone. He wasn't covering for her. He was punishing her for rejecting him. Edward was clearly itching to knock their heads together.

William deflected him, ‘So how do you rate England's chances, then, Teddy?'

Annie sat for the next five minutes with a fierce rugby controversy raging over the top of her head. Before long the argument deteriorated into the bollocks, bullshit! stage, and Annie decided she would rather spend her time with Barney and Isabella. She finished her drink and took a sneaky look at her watch. Nearly ten.

‘Another drink?' asked William.

Annie jumped. ‘Me? Um –' Help! ‘Oh, er, no thanks. I'd better be –'

‘So soon, honey?' he drawled.

She flushed and tried to get to her feet.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' said Edward. ‘You've only just got here.' He pulled her firmly back. ‘Another grapefruit juice, William.'

‘
No.
Thank you.' She peeled Edward's hand off her arm. ‘I've got to go.' She knew he'd be angry with her, but she found, for once, that she didn't care. ‘'Bye everyone.'

She got back to her room and pulled out her notebook. Edward would probably pursue her to remonstrate. All she'd have to say was, ‘Actually, I'm not feeling too good,' and he'd back off full of remorse. ‘Gosh, Annie, I'm sorry. Why didn't you say so? Can I get you anything?' But . . . but
sod
it! Annie never swore, but this time nothing else would quite do. Who wants to spend an evening sandwiched between two squabbling rugby fans? Not to mention William's hateful behaviour. Had he really come all that way just to put her in her place?

Hold it! she told herself. Don't start crying. What if Edward comes? She opened her notebook and reread the last scene. Coverdale vanished and she was back in Cambridge.

When Isabella –

There was a knock at the door. Annie's pen hovered. She'd been so absorbed she hadn't heard Edward's brogues bearing down on her. She hid the book.

‘Come in.'

It was William.

‘Hi, honey child.'

She scrambled to her feet. ‘What – w – w – You can't –'

He closed the door and crossed to the desk where she stood wringing her hands. ‘Why didn't you tell Edward you'd seen me? I damn nearly landed you in it.'

‘You told me not to!'

He was too close. She shrank back and sat on the desk edge.

‘So I'm a misogynist?'

‘I –'

‘Edward's very upset you don't like me, Annie.'

‘It's not –'

‘Give me another chance. Please. Saturday afternoon. We can walk on the beach in the rain. Or find some quiet teashop with an open fire. Then go out for dinner in the evening. Whatever you like.' She shook her head. ‘Oh, come on, Annie. You owe it to Edward.' She stood opening and shutting her mouth at his audacity. ‘I'll pick you up at the station at about two, OK?'

‘No.' He was giving her that irresistible smile. ‘
No.
I'm not –' She broke off. The sound of brogues echoed in the corridor. Edward! She made a guilty move.

‘Ssh!' said William. The footsteps paused. A knock. Annie opened her mouth to call him in, but William laid a finger on her lips. Her heart thumped. The silence was endless. His fingertip on her parted lips. The radiator ticking. Her breath coming fast, then suddenly his mouth on hers. Her hand which had reached out to push him away clutched him instead. At last the footsteps clumped off the way they had come.

‘I thought I wasn't imagining it,' he said, kissing her again, more slowly this time, working his tongue deep into her mouth. She was whimpering inside, shocked that it could be so horribly arousing. She would end up letting him stay. Then abruptly he released her. ‘See you on Saturday?' She nodded, looking at the floor in shame. ‘Yes?'

‘Yes.' She had stranded herself on the side of sin. There could be no other answer.

‘Good. I'll pick you up at two. Look at me.' He tilted her chin up and studied her expression. ‘Come on, it's not the end of the world, honey.'

But as his soft footsteps faded away, she felt that it was.

CHAPTER 11

‘“Almighty and most merciful Father; We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws . . .”'

Annie knelt in her pew in Coverdale chapel as the general confession rumbled briskly along. It was Lent, the term when they used the Book of Common Prayer.

‘“. . . That we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life . . .”'

Tubby absolved them genially. ‘“Pardon and remission of all your sins, time for amendment of life . . .”' Time for amendment. There was still time. She didn't have to visit William tomorrow. The Lord's Prayer, then a clattering as they all stood for the responses. The Venite. Help! Help me, Lord. The service swept past her like scenery past a train window. Psalm, lessons, Creed, collects. The final hymn.

    Forty days and forty nights

        Thou wast fasting in the wild.

    Forty days and forty nights

        Tempted, and yet undefiled.

Oh, let me be undefiled! But she could tell she had already made her decision.

The service was over and they all went out into the cold foggy morning. Annie shivered and pulled her hands up into the sleeves of her ragged sweater.

‘It's like a bloody working museum,' boomed Edward, who was not a fan of the prayer book.

The old Beauty-of-the-Language argument was proposed by Ingram. Ted, who was something of a Hot Prot, raised a theological point about the
Alternative Service Book
including material that Cranmer had got rid of. It was shaping up to be a full-blown liturgical debate over breakfast.

‘You're very quiet this morning,' said Edward as they sat down.

I wish you would be, thought Annie. Everyone seemed to be listening.

‘What got into you in the bar last night?' he demanded.

‘Leave her alone, Edward,' said Isobel.

‘I called round,' went on Edward relentlessly. ‘Where were you?'

‘I wasn't feeling too good.'

Ted flicked her a glance, then went back to the letter he was reading.

Annie blushed. Well, I wasn't.

‘Gosh, Annie. I'm sorry,' said Edward. ‘What's the matter?'

‘Perhaps a
leetle
sensitivity, Edward?' suggested Ingram, possibly taking her blush to indicate Women's Matters.

‘All right, all right.'

Annie made herself spoon cornflakes into her mouth. Come on. Chew. Swallow. She had been kept awake most of the night by Libby clanking her chain and baying like a werewolf. Her stomach still felt clenched in a fierce grip. Chew. Swallow. She realized Ted had spoken to her.

‘Sorry?'

‘Look at this. Penny sent it.' Penny was his wife. He handed over a church magazine with an item underlined.

Vic Huggins, organist and evangelist, also played. He uses his organ to open doors to non-believers who would not otherwise hear the gospel.

Annie whooped and passed the article round. Edward laughed till the tears rolled down his face.

‘Like a jemmy, do you suppose?' asked Annie.

‘Or a battering ram,' suggested Ted. Edward bellowed again.

‘Honestly, Edward,' said Isobel. ‘You're like a smutty schoolboy.' Her rebuke took in the rest of the group as well. They fell silent. She clattered her plate and bowl together primly and left the room.

‘Or a credit card,' said Ted. Annie could still hear Edward guffawing as she climbed the stairs to her room.

I'm cutting myself off from them, she thought. They were good people, on the whole, despite their occasional bickering and hobby-horse riding. They cared about what happened to her and how her soul was faring. She was risking their friendship for the sake of a man who cared nothing for her – apart from how quickly he could persuade her on to her back. If only he had a little more kindness or generosity she might be able to justify it to herself.

Her room seemed unnaturally still. As she gazed, the furniture took on a new clarity, as though it were coming into focus for the first time. The desk with its books and notes, the bed, the Indian cushions with their scraps of mirror, the Blake print of Michael binding Satan. There will be no justification, she thought. I won't twist the Bible round and tell myself that God approves. ‘
He who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption
.' Did she dare set herself against God? Her style was not defiant. She was more at home with evasions and invisibility. Perhaps God wouldn't notice. His mind must be full of Bosnian refugees and Aids victims. What would it matter to him if Annie Brown misspent her Saturday afternoons? She felt a pang. It did matter.

Isabella walked with the crowds towards the cathedral. She was so very suitably clad for the occasion that there was practically a hint of satire about her hat and gloves and her (ai-yai-yai) horribly expensive linen suit. Still, it was a timeless classic. A suit like that wouldn't date. I mean, it was practically an investment, for God's sake.

The crowds swelled. As she stood queuing outside the vast door Isabella wondered what the service would be like. She tried to remind herself that the purpose of the day was to ordain Barney
et al
, not to provide a stage for Isabella Deane. She was the sort of woman who chafed at weddings because she couldn't hog the limelight.

She made her way eventually into the cathedral with the throng. The vast building rumbled with the sound of feet and voices. The organ was playing thoughtful muted chords. Isabella sensed the excitement in the air and marvelled. It was church, after all. She didn't associate religion with that kind of happy anticipation. Perhaps she hadn't grasped just how big Barney's big day actually was.

An elderly man in a cassocky thing stepped forward as she hesitated in the nave. She half expected him to ask, ‘Bride or groom?'

‘A friend of mine's getting ordained and I don't know where I'm supposed to sit.' She flashed her nicest smile.

He was unmoved. ‘Deacon or priest?'

How the hell should I know? Then she remembered the Ember card. ‘Deacon, I think.' Was that faint disdain on his lips at her ignorance?

‘What name?'

She was on the point of giving her own name, when she realized what he meant. ‘Hardstaff.'

She followed him as he trundled off up the aisle. Shit, I should go to church more often, then I wouldn't feel like a complete twat. They reached a row of chairs and Isabella could see
Hardstaff
pinned to the end seat. She turned to thank the man, but he was already trundling away. The row was practically full. She hesitated again, rebuking herself for imagining she was the only person he had invited. His family – this must be his family, of course. A youngish woman caught sight of her hovering.

‘Isabella?'

‘Yes.'

‘Hey, listen everybody. It's Isabella. Barney's girlfriend.' Girlfriend! Isabella hardly had time for a shocked blush before she was being greeted, introduced and exclaimed over. Barney had told them all about her. They had marked Midlands accents. It occurred to her that she knew nothing about them, not even where they lived or what they did. She cursed herself for not finding out more, but how was she supposed to know she'd be billed as Barney's girlfriend? Was that what he thought? She blushed all over again.

His three sisters were handsome blondes with bluff, moustached husbands. The children had been left with relatives. Barney's father was almost bald. (Oh, no! Had Camilla been right about Barney's hairline?) His mother was silent. In that, Isabella feared she could read contempt. She found herself sitting next to her in the seat nearest the aisle. Before she could say something to banish that derisive curl on Mrs Hardstaff's lips the organ began to play more assertively. The chatter hushed, then a booming sound swept up the cathedral like a tidal wave as everyone rose to their feet.

Isabella fumbled with her order of service and was forced to peel off her gloves. They lay in limp supplication on the hymnbook rest in front of her.

    All my hope on God is founded.

    He doth still my trust renew.

    Me through change and chance he guideth,

    Only good and only true.

She didn't know the hymn. The procession was making its way up the aisle. She gave up trying to anticipate the tune and turned to stare. First came a beadle-y figure with a stave of some sort, then the choir. The unfamiliar tune went by in blasts: treble, treble, alto, tenor (mmm, nice), bass. Then some fancy clerics. Canons? she wondered. Two types: tall and cadaverous or round and Friar Tuck-like. Oh, and a woman. And, after her, the Bishop. Hey, not bad. He had a naughty twinkle in his eye. What glorious robes. That fabric would make wonderful drawing-room curtains. He was smiling and looking at people, unlike the clergy who followed. She resisted a childish urge to stick out a foot. It was the way they were gliding, hands folded piously, as though they were travelling up the aisle on a conveyor belt. Here came some younger ones. Maybe they were going to get ordained. Yes, there was Barney, his face sweetly serious as he sang the hymn. He caught sight of her and broke into a wide grin. Another second and he was gone.

The hymn ended and the procession arrived at the front.

‘The Lord be with you,' said a polite disembodied voice from a speaker on a nearby pillar. Isabella craned her neck. The Bishop.

‘And also with you,' rumbled the congregation.

Then the Bishop said a prayer. Everyone sat for a reading. Isabella's mind wandered to the subject of bishops in general. This one was a pleasant surprise. The ones you usually saw on television were either wintry or unctuous. They waved their hands around and chopped the air while they spoke. They wore horrible glasses with heavy black tops to the frames. Surely in this image-conscious age the Church should have an Episcopal Eyewear Advisory Committee? And a good haircut should be compulsory. No more draping of bald patches. Closet slapheads must be outed.

Whoops! Everyone was standing again. A psalm, followed by another reading. Isabella began to get bored. The sermon was a wash-out. The PA system seemed to have taken against the preacher's voice and bestowed on him a sharp British Rail announcement echo. A reference to a
wireless operator
was distinguishable, but little else.

They stood for the Creed. After a few sentences Isabella began to mumble. Then she fell silent. She couldn't in honesty say she believed in all this. She gazed up at the vaults and felt tiny, like some kind of insect that had scuttled in. Perhaps God would simply sweep her back out again. A nasty sense of unworthiness crept over her. No right-minded deity would give her the time of day. What was she, after all? Just a silly undergraduate who thought about nothing but sex, and squandered wicked sums on clothes when two-thirds of the world went to bed hungry. She bowed her head and looked down at her empty pleading gloves.

If there's anyone there, then I'm sorry. I want to be different. I want to be . . . good. Worthy. She broke off. The words seemed clumsy. She couldn't express the longing she felt. But as she stood helpless a voice seemed to speak:

You're accepted.

Her heart jumped. Me? How could she be? She felt so completely unacceptable. But the words wouldn't go away.
You're accepted.
Then Isabella felt a wild yelp of jubilation welling up inside her. She bit her lips. Yodelling for joy was probably not the done thing in cathedrals. The Creed ended and everyone sat down. She felt as though she had looked at the finals results board and seen her name up among the firsts when she knew she should have failed. I don't believe it. I've gone and got myself converted.

Annie looked at what she had written. She had planned to put so much more into this chapter, to produce a conversion scene that would move the reader to tears of repentance. But how can I? How can I sit there writing about grace and conversion when I'm planning to fly in the face of God's law? A Bible verse rose up to accuse her:
The works of the flesh are plain: fornication, impurity, licentiousness . . . Those who do such things will never enter the kingdom of God.
I'll finish it later, she promised. I'll come back to it when I'm in a better frame of mind.

The final hymn ended and the cathedral began to hum with excited chatter. New priests and deacons were reunited with friends and family. Everyone was pressing towards the exits. Isabella stood on tiptoe, hoping to catch sight of Barney.

‘There he is,' called a sister. ‘Yoohoo! Barney-boy!' He was waving from the steps near the door in a black shirt and dog-collar. Eventually they reached him. Isabella stood on the sidelines while he was hugged and congratulated and slapped on the back.

‘Well, well, well. Not bad, son. Not bad at all, eh?' said his father, rubbing his hands together. ‘You'll have to behave yourself from now on. There'll be no more –' A hiss from his wife silenced him.

‘When do you get a purple shirt, then?' asked a brother-in-law.

‘When pigs fly,' said a sister. ‘Look at you, Barney! You've got dandruff. And your hair's falling out.' She flapped at his shoulders.

‘Leave the poor bugger alone,' his father protested.

Barney pushed his sisters aside and reached Isabella.

‘Thank you for coming.'

He kissed her cheek and she stifled a giggle. It felt odd to be kissed by a man in a dog-collar. She couldn't quite take him seriously. It was like seeing a well-known actor miscast in a bad film. ‘You look like something off
The Thorn Birds
,' she said.

‘Except he's not good-looking,' said his sisters.

Isabella frowned. They treated him like a little brother who must be squashed and kept in his place. They were nearing the Bishop now as he stood greeting people just outside the cathedral.