The Four Last Things. Andrew Taylor
increasing – I can find you the statistic, if you want. You have to hand it to the Evangelicals, they have turned the tide. Of course, at St George’s we try to have something for everyone – a broad, non-sectarian approach. We see ourselves as –’
‘You’re doing a fine job, all right.’ Howell kept his eyes on Sally. ‘But at the end of the day, what sells a feature is human interest. It’s the people who count, eh? So maybe we could have a chat sometime.’ He glanced round the little circle of faces. ‘With all of you, that is.’
‘Delighted,’ Derek replied for them all. ‘I –’
‘Good. I’ll give you a ring then, set something up.’ Howell glanced at his watch. ‘Good Lord – is that the time? Must love you and leave you.’
Derek watched him go. ‘Frank was very helpful over the conversion of the Lady Chapel,’ he murmured to Sally, patting her arm. ‘He did a piece on the opening ceremony. We had the bishop, you know.’ Suddenly he stood on tiptoe, and waved vigorously at his wife. ‘There’s Margaret – I know she wanted a word with you, Sally. I think she may have found you a baby-sitter. She’s not one of ours, but a lovely woman, all the same. Utterly reliable, too. Her name’s Carla Vaughan.’
On the way home to Hercules Road, Michael and Sally conducted an argument in whispers in the front of the car while Lucy, strapped into the back seat, sang along with ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ on the stereo. It was not so much an argument as a quarrel with gloves on.
‘Aren’t we going rather fast?’ Sally asked.
‘I didn’t realize we were going to be so late.’
‘Nor did I. The service took longer than I expected, and –’
‘I’m worried about lunch. I left it on quite high.’
Sally remembered all the meals which had been spoiled because Michael’s job had made him late. She counted to five to keep her temper in check.
‘This Carla woman, Sal – the child minder.’
‘What about her?’
‘I wish we knew a bit more.’
‘She sounds fine to me. Anyway, I’ll see her before we decide.’
‘I wish –’
‘You wish what?’
He accelerated through changing traffic lights. ‘I wish she wasn’t necessary.’
‘We’ve been through all this, haven’t we?’
‘I suppose I thought your job might be more flexible.’
‘Well, it’s not. I’m sorry but there it is.’
He reacted to her tone as much as to her words. ‘What about Lucy?’
‘She’s your daughter too.’ Sally began to count to ten.
‘I know. And I know we agreed right from the start we both wanted to work. But –’
Sally reached eight before her control snapped. ‘You’d like me to be something sensible like a teacher, wouldn’t you? Something safe, something that wouldn’t embarrass you. Something that would fit in with having children. Or better still, you’d like me to be just a wife and mother.’
‘A child needs her parents. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘This child has two parents. If you’re so concerned –’
‘And what’s going to happen when she’s older? Do you want her to be a latchkey kid?’
‘I’ve got a job to do, and so have you. Other people manage.’
‘Do they?’
Sally glanced in the mirror at the back of the sun visor. Lucy was still singing along with a robust indifference to the tune, but she had Jimmy pushed against her cheek; she sensed that her parents were arguing.
‘Listen, Michael. Being ordained is a vocation. It’s not something I can just ignore.’
He did not reply, which fuelled her worst fears. He used silence as a weapon of offence.
‘Anyway, we talked about all this before we married. I know the reality is harder than we thought. But we agreed. Remember?’
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. ‘That was different. That was before we had Lucy. You’re always tired now.’
Too tired for sex, among other things: another reason for guilt. At first they had made a joke of it, but even the best jokes wore thin with repetition.
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Of course it’s the point, love,’ he said. ‘You’re trying to do too much.’
There was another silence. ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ gave way to ‘The Wheels on the Bus’. Lucy kicked out the rhythm on the back of Sally’s seat, attention-seeking behaviour. This should have been a time of celebration after Sally’s first service at St George’s. Now she wondered whether she was fit to be in orders at all.
‘You’d rather I wasn’t ordained,’ Sally said to Michael, voicing a fear rather than a fact. ‘In your heart of hearts, you think women clergy are unnatural.’
‘I never said that.’
‘You don’t need to say it. You’re just the same as Uncle David. Go on, admit it.’
He stared at the road ahead and pushed the car over the speed limit. Mentioning Uncle David had been a mistake. Mentioning Uncle David was always a mistake.
‘Come on.’ Sally would have liked to shake him.
‘Talk to me.’
They finished the journey in silence. In an effort to use the time constructively, Sally tried to pray for the old woman who had cursed her. She felt as if her prayers were falling into a dark vacuum.
‘Your will be done,’ she said again and again in the silence of her mind; and the words were merely sounds emptied of meaning. It was as if she were talking into a telephone and not knowing whether the person on the other end was listening or even there at all. She tried to persuade herself that this was due to the stress of the moment. Soon the stress would pass, she told herself, and normal telephonic reception would be restored. It would be childish to suppose that the problem was caused by the old woman’s curse.
‘Shit,’ said Michael, as they turned into Hercules Road. Someone had usurped their parking space.
‘It’s all right,’ Sally said, hoping that Lucy had not heard. ‘There’s a space further up.’
Michael reversed the Rover into it, jolting the nearside rear wheel against the kerb. He waited on the pavement, jingling his keys, while Sally extracted Lucy and her belongings.
‘What’s for lunch?’ Lucy demanded. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Ask your father.’
‘A sort of lamb casserole with haricot beans.’ Michael tended to cook what he liked to eat.
‘Yuk. Can I have Frosties instead?’
Their flat was in a small, purpose-built block dating from the 1930s. Michael had bought it before their marriage. It was spacious for one person, comfortable for two and just large enough to accommodate a small child as well. As Sally opened the front door, the smell of burning rushed out to greet them.
‘Shit,’ Michael said. ‘And double shit.’
Before Lucy was born, Sally and Michael Appleyard had decided that they would not allow any children they might have to disrupt their lives. They had seen how the arrival of children had affected the lives of friends, usually, it seemed, for the worse. They themselves were determined to avoid the trap.
They