The Benefits of Passion (13 page)

‘Hello, Barnaby,' he said, as they shook hands. Barney's family were all introduced. Isabella felt overlooked.

‘And this is Isabella,' he said at last, not adding ‘my girlfriend', or even ‘a friend of mine from Cambridge'.

‘Hello. I'm his concubine,' said Isabella, shaking the Bishop's hand and giving him a dazzling smile. Barney covered his face in despair. ‘I think you're wonderful, by the way. Not at all like a bishop.'

‘Er, thank you,' replied the Bishop.

Isabella felt Barney grip her elbow and steer her away. ‘'Bye,' she called.

The Bishop smiled and turned to the next group.

‘Well,' said Barney as they walked off. ‘There go my chances of an early preferment.'

‘Are you mad at me?' He smiled down at her. The bells were pealing, the sound tumbling joyfully down around them. Before Barney could reply he was told to hurry it up by an impatient sister.

What a weird day, thought Isabella in the train on the way home. Strange to see Barney in two new lights: as a clergyman and as a member of the Hardstaff family. If only they'd had more time together. She wasn't used to sharing him like this. He'd had dozens of people to talk to over lunch. The afternoon sped by, and in no time it was Evensong. After that there had been a bunfight in the church hall with Barney endlessly circulating and being charming to grey-haired women in nylon jersey dresses. A horrible sense of foreboding seized her: if she married Barney then this could be the first of many such occasions for her. Her eyes rested in dismay on the vicar's wife with her pageboy haircut and fifteen-year-old Laura Ashley smock. I'd have to kill myself! She clutched her plate of quiche and crisps. Barney caught her eye across the crowd in front of the urn and smiled. Why couldn't you be a merchant banker, for God's sake? Or a farmer, even, like your father.

‘I'm just running Isabella to the station,' Barney had said, when it was finally all over.

‘Oh, yes?' said his father, eyebrows waggling. His wife cuffed him. ‘I've said nothing!' he protested.

‘I think God spoke to me in the cathedral,' said Isabella, as they drove off in Barney's new and disappointingly staid car. ‘Do you think that's possible?'

‘What did he say?' She explained. ‘Yes. Sounds like God.'

‘I think I might have been . . . converted. Or something.' It occurred to her that he might expect some evidence, some alteration in her behaviour. She glanced back through the day and saw herself vamping the Bishop and despising the vicar's wife. Hmm. Barney took one of her hands in his and kissed it.

‘Good.' They drove the rest of the way in silence.

‘I know I'm not perfect,' she gabbled on the platform, ‘but I'll change. I'll –'

‘Don't worry about it.' he said. ‘It's God's job not yours. And it's a slow process. A lifetime's work.'

‘Really?'

He grinned. ‘Well, he's been working on me for about eight years and I'm still a bastard.'

‘You aren't! I won't let you say that.' The train was approaching.

‘Isabella, you've got no idea.'

‘Yes I have. I'm a world expert on men. I know a bastard when I see one.'

But he only smiled and shook his head at her.

CHAPTER 12

Annie stared at the page. Christus Victor. Penal substitution. Redeemer. Messiah. Second Adam. She sketched some arrows between these ideas, hoping that this would trick the long-awaited essay framework into appearing. The Bridge Illustration drifted into her mind,
GOD
and
MAN
divided by
SIN.
All the fault of
WOMAN
, of course. Eve and the fruit of the tree. Annie reached for a book and turned to a passage she had marked earlier, where one of the early fathers roundly blamed Eve (and, by association, all women) for the death of Christ. ‘You are the devil's gateway,' she read. That sounded familiar. She remembered with a jolt of surprise that it was what William had called her. A different man – Ingram, say – would have added casually, ‘Tertullian, by the way.' William hadn't cared that his erudition went unremarked, or that she might think he was expressing his own misogynist views.

She'd be seeing him in a couple of hours. The passage of time always amazed her. Here she was standing on one bank looking across. That evening she'd be on the other side looking back. What would it be like, that icy tide in between? Did Eve circle round the tree, eyeing the fruit, knowing it was inevitable that one day her hand would reach out, her lips taste, and that she would
know
at last?

The train crossed the Tyne and drew into Newcastle. Annie clamped her arms tightly round herself. She hadn't felt this sick with nerves since her Cambridge interview when she was eighteen. She wanted to curl up under the seat and stay on the train till Edinburgh. Why hadn't she rung him and said she'd changed her mind?

He wasn't on the platform. A dozen fears fluttered about in her head. What if he'd changed his mind? What if she'd got the wrong day or time? People surged past her. An announcement echoed. She would have to wait. But for how long? She began crossing the footbridge. What if he never came? But then she caught sight of him on the concourse. For a few seconds she was able to watch him from above. He made a dramatic impression in his long black coat, scowling, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, glancing at his watch. It dawned on her that he might be as nervous as she was. She hurried down.

‘Annie!' His face lit up. ‘You came.'

‘Well, I said I would.'

‘You could have stood me up. Something tells me I deserved it.'

‘A little voice inside you?' she asked. ‘We call it “conscience” in the trade.'

He gave her a nasty look. ‘I won't ask what state your conscience is in.' She blushed. ‘Come on.' She had to trot to keep up with him as he headed for the car park. ‘Have you eaten?'

‘I tried to.'

‘Nervous?'

‘Terrified.'

He tossed his keys into the air and caught them with a grin. ‘Where shall we go?'

‘Um . . .'

He unlocked the door for her and she got in. ‘The moors? The coast? Say something. Choose.'

‘Whichever's easiest.'

‘Right. The coast.' He slammed the door. She cringed down into her coat, knowing her feebleness provoked him.

‘Look,' she tried, ‘sorry I'm being –'

‘Stop apologizing,' he interrupted.

‘Sorr –' Help! She clamped her mouth shut.

He started the car and pulled out of the station. It was raining heavily. She glanced at his profile as he drove, but couldn't decide whether he was angry or amused. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Before long they were out of Newcastle and heading for the coast. The weather worsened. Annie watched as the windscreen wipers thrashed backwards and forwards. Dared she talk about the weather? She was starting to giggle.

‘Just look at it,' she said.

‘Mm. Don't you love it?' She glanced again, doubted, and said nothing. ‘Well? Do you love it, yes or no, for God's sake?'

‘The rain?'

‘Yes, of course the
rain
.' His tone accused her of smuttiness. She looked out of her window to hide a smile. Would they ever achieve a straightforward conversation? The rain slashed across the window as she gazed out.

‘Um . . . No. I don't. Didn't you mention a tea-shop with an open fire?'

‘Too late.' His fingers drummed on the steering wheel in time with the rain.

‘Do you love it?'

He flared his nostrils at her. ‘God, yes.'

She bit her lips. He's mad, she decided. There's no point trying to understand or placate him. What if – daring thought – she was just herself, like the agony aunts in women's magazines always recommended?
Just be yourself
. It had always struck her as dangerous advice. He was whistling through his teeth, something jaunty and baroque-sounding. I bet he's itching to put the radio on. Edward would be chemically bonded to the television by now.

‘Do listen to the rugby, if you want to,' she said.

He chuckled. ‘Kick-off's not till three.' He smothered a yawn. ‘Sorry. Two a.m. call out last night. Always buggers me up.'

‘Anything serious?'

‘Yeah. She should've gone straight to Casualty really, but she wanted to see me because I'm so kind and understanding.' He slid her a look. ‘Hard to credit, hmm?'

‘Er . . . what was wrong with her?'

‘Broken nose. Concussion. Classic symptoms of a congenital tendency to walk into doorframes.'

‘Is that congenital?' asked Annie, in surprise.

‘No. Well, only in the sense that women with violent fathers tend to pick violent partners.' He saw her puzzled expression. ‘Her man beat her up.'

‘Oh! Will she leave him?'

‘No. The flat's in her name. Everything's in the woman's name in that bit of town. All the benefits, and so on. They've got the power. The men just run around doing the shagging.'

‘And the beating up.'

‘Yes – because they're emasculated. Don't think I'm condoning it,' he added. ‘It's what the system does to people.'

‘She could throw him out,' said Annie, hoping to avert a political tirade.

‘Another woman would take him in. Look. There's the sea.'

Annie stared at the grey stripe low on the horizon. She was depressed by Will's bleak view of society. He parked the car. The rain spattered on the windscreen in the silence. They got out and she heard the waves booming on the shore. Cold rain lashed her face.

‘Come on!' he shouted, above the wind. They ran hand in hand down the steps and staggered across the sand. He was laughing out loud.

He really does love it. ‘You're mad!' The wind tossed her words away.

He flung his arms wide and shouted, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!'

Another wave crashed in and he sprinted to meet it. She watched him down at the water's edge conducting the storm. For a moment it looked as though he really was calling up wave after wave, a demon impresario with the elements at his bidding, his long black coat swirling in the wind. She envied him his total abandon. He was gesturing her to join him. She went as far as she dared. A wave raced at her and she danced out of its path.

‘I'll get wet.' He strode towards her. The sea was foaming round his feet. ‘No!'

But he reached out and pulled her to him. Icy water seeped into her boots. He began kissing her. Cold lips, hot tongue. She clung to him, feeling the shore sliding under her and the sea booming in her head. Another wave surged in, drenching them to their knees. Annie screamed. He dragged her higher up the beach, laughing. The sea chased them.

‘Yes! It's coming in, Annie.'

‘I know!' she wailed. ‘Now I see why the Northumbrian saints used to stand in it to mortify the flesh.' He was kissing her again, salt on his lips, icy hand undoing her jeans. She squealed.

‘Stand still.'

‘Someone will see!' A sea gull screamed on the wind. ‘Does it feel weird doing this without gloves on, Doctor?' she asked. ‘O-oh ah!'

‘Stop thinking and start feeling.'

But I'm feeling too much already. She tried to fight it back but it rose as swiftly as the tide. ‘At least kiss me,' she pleaded.

He laughed. ‘I want to watch your face.'

She was burning up like a heretic saint, martyred on his icy fingers. Help! Think about something else. Seven times table. Seven sevens are . . . Am I the first woman in history trying to fake not having an orgasm? Forty-nine!

‘Mm-
ah
!'

‘Bloody hell. I've hardly started.'

‘Sorry.' They stared at one another in surprise.

‘Are you always like this?' He sounded almost annoyed.

‘No. Not . . . It's you, not me.' Some expression flickered in his green eyes. She shivered. Her feet ached with cold.

‘My God, Annie. What are we standing here for? Let's get back.' He grabbed her hand and ran with her to the car.

They drove in silence. Annie hugged herself and shuddered. Whatever must he think of me? And they were speeding to his house for more. Underwear doubts assailed her. Her knickers had looked all right in Coverdale, but how would they seem against his (doubtless) pure white Egyptian cotton sheets? Then a worse thought occurred.

‘Um . . . I'm not on the pill, or anything . . .'

‘Actually, honey child, down here on planet Earth we all use condoms these days.'

They lapsed back into silence. Annie began to wish they would crash or that the Second Coming would take place before they got back to Bishopside.

‘What's wrong?' he asked.

‘I'm still nervous.'

‘
You're
nervous. What about me, for Christ's sake? You're only the instrument. I'm supposed to be the maestro.'

Well, if his bowing was on a par with his fingerwork she could look forward to a virtuoso performance.

‘Are you laughing at me?' he asked.

By the time they reached his house a fatal awkwardness seemed to have descended. They took off their wet jeans and bundled them into the washing machine. Annie giggled at the absurdity of bare legs in the kitchen and was almost relieved when he led her upstairs to his bedroom. They undressed and began kissing. This is hopeless, she thought, after a while. We should have done it on the beach. His confidence seemed to have abandoned him. She reached down timidly to caress him. He thrust her aside, sat up and to her dismay began to call down a string of vile medical curses on his impotent flesh.

‘Don't, Will.' She placed a hand on his arm, but he flung it off again. ‘It's OK.'

‘It's not OK!' he raged.

A nursery rhyme flitted improperly through her mind.
My master's lost his fiddling stick, and doesn't know what to do!
She giggled. There was a horrible silence. She stared into his wild eyes, appalled at what she had done. He grabbed his dressing gown and stormed out of the room.

Oh, no! Annie sat frozen in dismay. She hadn't really been laughing at him. It was nerves. She sat on the bed dithering, knowing she must go and apologize yet terrified of his anger. Go on, she urged herself. It was unforgivable to laugh at such a moment. The poor man. She wrapped a blanket round herself and crept after him.

He was sitting in the kitchen pale with rage. Another giggle trembled in her.

‘Look, Will, I'm really sorry. Couldn't we try again? Please? It doesn't matter if –'

‘Don't you patronize me,' he spat.

She flinched. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I'm sorry. Can't I . . . um, do anything to – to . . .'

He sat biting his lip. Gradually his expression grew less wild. ‘You could always kiss it better,' he muttered. For a moment she didn't catch his meaning.

‘Oh! I . . .' She hesitated.

He was waiting, raw from his recent humiliation, poised to take further offence. Now wasn't the time to say she'd never done this before.

The tiles were cold under her knees. She felt him pulse to life between her shrinking lips. The washing machine was still threshing away. She was trying not to gag and offend him. Rain spattered against the window. He groaned and his hands began to stroke her hair. Perhaps one day she might grow to like it, this strange mixture of power and vulnerability, of tenderness and disgust. He was whimpering her name. Then he was hauling her off him.

‘Lie down,' he whispered urgently. Her back cringed against the cold tiles. He parted her legs. She clung to him and waited.

‘Jesus fucking
Christ
!'

‘Will!'

‘I can't do it!' he sobbed. ‘I can't do it!' He wrenched away from her. His face was distorted with rage, hatred. ‘It's you. You're unfuckable. I need a woman, not some giggling fucking schoolgirl. Get out. Get your clothes and get
out
!'

She listened to his footsteps pounding up the stairs.

God stood there like her mother spitting in triumph. Well, you got what was coming to you, Anne Brown. I just hope you've learnt your lesson.

She got up off the floor and wrapped the blanket tightly round her, clutching it under her chin. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The machine began its spin cycle. I can't go till it's finished. She sat huddled in the blanket like an accident victim beside a road, waiting, trembling. He hates me. I should never never have come here. At last the machine came to a stop. She tried to pull her jeans out but they were tangled with his. Her fingers were too weak to free them. A sob escaped. He was upstairs having a shower. She could hear the water running.

She sat down again and clutched the blanket. Her mind reached out to God, pleading, but he turned away. I'm busy. It's your own fault, Anne. You've got to realize I've got better things to do with my time than run around after you . . . On and on went the voice.

I shouldn't have laughed.

She could hear him coming back. Her hand tried desperately to smooth her hair.

‘Your clothes,' he said.