The Judgement of Strangers. Andrew Taylor
a book,’ I said to her.
Vanessa looked warily at me. ‘What sort of book?’
‘It’s a history of the parish. Not really a book. I’d say it’s about ten thousand words.’
‘How interesting.’
She glanced at me again, and I think a spark of shared amusement passed between us. She knew how to say one thing and mean another.
‘She’s looking for a publisher.’
‘Sugar, Vanessa?’ boomed Ronald. ‘Cream?’
‘In my experience, most authors are.’ She smiled up at Ronald. ‘Just a dash of cream, please, Ronnie.’
Ronnie?
‘She believes it might appeal to readers all over the country,’ I continued. ‘Not just to those who know Roth.’
‘The happy few?’
I smiled. It was a novelty to have someone talk to me as a person rather than as a priest. ‘Could you recommend a publisher she could send it to?’ I stared at the curve of her arm and noticed the almost invisible golden hairs that grew on the skin. ‘Someone who would have a look at the book and give a professional opinion. I imagine you haven’t got the time to look at stray typescripts yourself.’
‘Vanessa’s always looking at stray typescripts,’ Ronald said, and laughed. ‘Or looking for them.’
‘I might be able to spare five minutes,’ she said to me, her voice deadpan.
Once again, she glanced at me, and once again the spark of amusement danced between us.
‘Brandy, anyone?’ Ronald enquired. ‘Or what about a liqueur?’
For the rest of the evening Vanessa talked mainly to Ronald, Cynthia and Victor Thurston. I was the first to leave.
The following Monday, I looked up Royston and Forde in the directory and phoned Vanessa at her office. Cynthia Trask answered the phone. Oddly enough this took me by surprise. I had completely forgotten that she worked there.
‘Good morning, Cynthia. This is David Byfield.’
‘Hello, David.’
After a short pause I said, ‘Thank you so much for Friday.’
‘Not at all. Ronald and I enjoyed it.’
I wondered if I should have sent flowers or something. ‘I don’t know if Vanessa mentioned it, but one of my parishioners has written a book. She volunteered to have a look at it.’
‘I’ll see if she’s engaged,’ Cynthia said.
A moment later, Vanessa came on the line. She was brisk with me, her voice sounding much sharper on the telephone. She was busy most of the day, she was afraid, but might I be free for lunch? Ninety minutes later, we were sitting opposite each other in a café near Richmond Bridge.
The long, clinging dress she had worn at the Trasks’ on Friday had given her a voluptuous appearance. Now she was another woman, dressed in a dark suit, and with her hair pulled back: slimmer, sharper and harder.
The typescript of The History of Roth was in a large, brown envelope on the table between us. I had picked it up from Audrey on my way to Richmond. (‘So kind of you, David. I’m so grateful.’)
Vanessa did not touch the envelope. She picked at her sandwich. A silence lay between us, and as it grew longer I felt increasingly desolate. The friendly intimacy that had flourished so briefly between us on Friday evening was gone. I found it all too easy, on the other hand, to think of her as a desirable woman. I had been a fool to come here. I was wasting her time and mine. I should have sent the typescript in the post.
‘Do you visit many churches?’ I asked, to make conversation. ‘You mentioned our panel paintings on Friday.’
Vanessa fiddled with one of the crumbs on her plate. ‘Not really. I wanted to see Roth because of the connection with Francis Youlgreave.’
‘The poet?’ My voice sounded unnaturally loud. ‘He’s buried in the vault under the chancel.’
‘He deserves a few paragraphs in here.’ Vanessa tapped the envelope containing the typescript. ‘Quite a sensational character, by all accounts.’
‘Audrey does mention him, but she’s very circumspect about what she says.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s a member of the family still living in Roth. I think her husband was the poet’s great-nephew. Audrey didn’t want to give people the wrong idea about him.’
‘Defile their judgement, as it were.’ Vanessa smiled across the table at me. Then she quoted two lines from the poem that had found its way into several anthologies. It was usually the only poem of his that anyone had read.
‘Then darkness descended; and whispers defiled
The judgement of stranger, and widow, and child.’
‘Just so.’
‘Does anyone remember him in the village?’
‘Roth isn’t that sort of place. There aren’t that many people left who lived there before the last war. And Francis Youlgreave died before the First World War. Have you a particular reason for asking?’
She shrugged. ‘I read quite a lot of his verse when I was up at Oxford. Not a very good poet, to be frank – all those jog-trot rhythms can be rather wearing. But he was interesting more for what he was and for who he knew than for what he wrote.’
‘Not a very nice man, by all accounts. Unbalanced.’
‘Yes, but rather fascinating.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m awfully sorry, David, but I’ve got to rush.’
I concealed my disappointment. I paid the bill and walked with her back to the office where I had left my car.
‘Would you like to telephone me tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘I should have had time to look at the book by then.’
‘Of course. At the office?’
‘I’ll probably read it at home, actually.’
‘What time would suit you?’
‘About seven?’
She gave me her number. We said goodbye and I drove back to Roth, feeling profoundly dissatisfied. I had made a fool of myself in more ways than one. I had expected more, much more, from my lunch with Vanessa – though quite what, I did not know. I was aware, too, that there was something absurd in a middle-aged widower acting in the way that I was doing. It was clear that she saw me as an acquaintance and that by looking at the typescript she was merely doing me – and Audrey – a good turn from the kindness of her heart.
Still, I thought, at least I had a reason to telephone Vanessa tomorrow evening.
In the event, however, I did not telephone Vanessa on Tuesday evening. This was because on Tuesday afternoon I received an unexpected and unpleasant visit from Cynthia Trask.
Cynthia arrived without warning in the late afternoon.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said briskly. ‘But I happened to be passing, and I thought this might be a good opportunity to drop in those odds and ends from my niece.’
In the back of her Mini Traveller were two suitcases and a faded army kitbag containing the lacrosse stick and other sporting impedimenta. I carried them into the house and called Rosemary, who was reading in her room. She did not appear