Such Men Are Dangerous Page 8

  Granted, Mrs Beecham was nearly fifty years older than him. But at any age, surely, life was precious. (Unless it wasn’t; he thought of Jerry Turner.) The fear of the unknown was just as great.

  “The doctor said it might be better to leave her as she was. You see, she’s usually quite chirpy—except on her off-days. He thought it would be a pity to risk spoiling things, without a proper reason.”

  Without a proper reason! “How would you feel, Mrs Philby, if it was you?”

  “Oh, I’d just want someone to put me out with an injection, very quietly, not a word. ‘You’ll be right as rain in no time, dear.’ That’s how I’d like it. Oh, why do people have to die?” Her voice shook, as she asked that. He went over to where she stood at the sink, with her gaunt back turned towards him, and put an arm around her shoulders.

  “I can’t tell her, vicar. I just can’t do it.”

  “That’s all right, Amy, you don’t have to.” Again, he thanked God that her Christian name should have come back to him just then. He noticed that she wore a hairnet; he wondered why she thought she needed it.

  “I can’t go through it all again.”

  “Your husband?” he asked.

  “My husband. My sister. My father-in-law. I can’t take any more of it. I can’t!”

  He held her while she cried. His lips moved rapidly and silently.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he repeated soothingly, from time to time. “There’ll be people who can help. Try not to worry, it’s going to be all right.”

  Suddenly he heard that phrase, himself using it, nearly as if he had never heard it before. Try not to worry. Try not to worry! He was startled by the glibness of it, by the fact that, despite everything, he remained callow. If he’d been in this woman’s position he thought he might have said: “What right has he to tell me that? What experience has he ever had of real suffering? Him with his mother and all his home comforts and people always inviting him for dinner. His posh southern accent. How much can he know about the true nature of things?”

  But he was so very far from being in this woman’s position, he realized with a further slight shock, that even at this moment, with another human being’s unhappiness as rawly manifest before him as in ordinary circumstances it very well could be, he was still actually thinking of himself; absorbed neither in her grief nor in his own prayers.

  God, he thought.

  When her sobbing had grown calmer, Simon said:

  “Amy, shall we put the whole thing in the hands of God? Just stand here for a moment and ask for his guidance and for the knowledge of his presence?”

  She asked him to wait a second while she blew her nose and dried her eyes. She apologized for the spectacle which she’d gone and made of herself.

  When he had finished praying, he gave her a final pat on the side of one shoulder and walked back to the table. She blew her nose again and put the kettle on.

  “Thank you, vicar, that was nice. I feel better now. I want her to be told. I think she should. She’s different to what I am.”

  “I’m sure that’s right,” he said. “And I’m not being presumptuous, am I, in thinking you’d prefer me to do it?”

  “Oh, if you don’t mind. If you would. I’d be happier.” She was taking down cups from the dresser and she gave him a pinched smile of gratitude across her shoulder.

  “How long does the doctor give her?”

  “He thinks she’ll still be with us for Christmas. She always liked Christmas; I never much cared for it myself. Funny thing, you’d think it would run in the family, one way or the other. I don’t want her ending up in hospital,” she added, fiercely.

  He tried to tell her that towards the finish her mother might be better off in hospital, but she wouldn’t accept that and, after all, he was no expert. “And especially not at Christmas,” she said twice.

  “What I mentioned earlier about there being lots of people to help, I very much meant it, you’d—”

  “No,” she said. “That’s very kind. You don’t want strangers at a time like that.”

  “Amy, they wouldn’t be strangers. They…People you’ve seen at church,” he ended rather lamely. But again he decided not to push. He asked about her family. A brother in New Zealand who wouldn’t have the money nor the inclination to come over, it appeared. Her son perhaps somewhere in London; she hadn’t heard from him in more than three years, he could be dead for all she knew. A few odd cousins scattered here and there, there wasn’t one she could be sure she’d recognize if he walked into this room right here and now. They had some good neighbours but neighbours weren’t family; and as for family—useless, worse than useless. Amy Philby and her mother were completely on their own.

  “And that’s the way I like it,” she affirmed. “I won’t go crawling after any of them! Let them find out afterwards and feel about it whichever way they choose.”

  She sat down whilst she drank her tea, sat with rawboned hands clamped round the cup, as though even that could soon be taken from her.

  The ironic thing was that he himself felt basically so grateful and at peace. Ironic? Almost shameful. It was a desperate world, teeming with Sharon Turners and Amy Philbys (for in the mere half-mile dividing them how many others were there, each in his own proud ring of suffering, one in a chain of beaten lives that fell across the country?), and yet he knew now that hope remained. Real; abundant. God was there. God cared. He cared. Yes, naturally one had believed in that before but it was joyous suddenly to have the confirmation. A boy’s face…Simon hadn’t been to look at William. In fact he didn’t need to. The miracle had conveyed itself along those telephone wires as surely as if a burning bush had sprung up in the centre of his study.

  And yet he couldn’t tell her of it, this woman who sat across the table, this woman who so very desperately needed it. He wondered how much it might have alleviated her suffering.

  Enormously! Enormously! How could it not have?

  When they had finished their tea she led the way upstairs. She opened the door to Mrs Beecham’s bedroom while Simon waited on the landing. “Mum! I’ve got a visitor for you. You’ll never guess.”

  The daughter went into the room to arrange the mother’s shawl, smooth over the surface of the bed, close the window she had opened earlier. Simon heard her say: “It’s the vicar, Mum. He’s come to see you. Isn’t that nice?” It sounded like the voice, the personality, of a different woman. He didn’t catch the old lady’s undoubtedly less buoyant response.

  Amy Philby beckoned him in. “I’ll just leave the two of you to have a little chat, then, shall I?” He was barely into the room before she herself was out of it and with the door firmly shut between them.

  “Good morning, vicar. What a surprise!”

  The woman sitting up in bed had the same turned-up nose as her daughter but otherwise…Well, life had probably been kinder to her. Her hair was softer (white and gently waved and pretty), her cheeks were fuller, her body was, as well. She was unquestionably more pampered: she smelled of powder and perfume and her fingernails were polished.

  There were flowers in the bedroom, and books and photographs. Her bed, plump-pillowed and inviting, was set by the window and from it she could look into the road; Simon was reminded of his boyhood dream of what a bedroom ought to be. Full of sunshine on occasion, snug, a wholly welcoming, picture-book retreat. Secure from all the outer harsh realities, a kind of cosy sealed-off kingdom from which to view the world.

  “Good morning, Mrs Beecham. I like your room.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I do, too. Now, where are you going to sit? Here on the bed would be comfy and I could see you better. And hear you better.” He sat down at the spot where she was patting the side of the eiderdown. “Maybe you’re worried I could also eat you better?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll take my chances.”

  “I’m not sure if vicars should gamble!” She wheezed a little upon this.

  “But I don’t feel they should be scared of a calcul
ated risk.”

  There was a short, companionable silence.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No thank you, Mrs Beecham.”

  “Just had one, have you?”

  “It isn’t long since breakfast.”

  “Ah…I thought that perhaps Amy might have made you one before you came up?”

  He hesitated, smiled.

  “Yes, you’re right. She did.”

  “And the two of you had a wee talk?” Then before he could answer she put up a hand to stop him. “It’s all right, vicar. I know why you’re here. It’s very good of you and I appreciate it but I know.” And she lay her veined, arthritic hand on top of his for a moment and gave it a slight squeeze, as though she was the one whose job it was to offer comfort.

  “How did you know, Mrs Beecham?”

  “Well, now, you guess. I have a few simple tests at the surgery, then some others a shade more complicated at the hospital, x-rays and things—oh, just a routine check, they try to tell me, everyone over sixty has them now. Then yesterday the doctor comes to see me, spends a long time talking to my daughter at the front door. Through the evening Amy hugs me about six times, kisses me on the cheek, is ever so bright and breezy but tense and snappy with it, if you see what I mean. And as if all that wasn’t enough, you yourself turn up around the crack of dawn, the second visit you’ve paid us in about three years, and without even ringing the doorbell, what’s more! Well, vicar, let me tell you something. Up to now, for silly reasons of my own, I may have gone along with it but even so I was not born yesterday.” She gave a cheerful laugh, until he saw her upper dentures start to slip. “I’ll let you into another little secret if you like.”

  “Please.”

  “I don’t mind. I don’t mind dying.”

  He nodded, non-committally. It was now he who had his hand on hers.

  “And shall I tell you why?”

  He thought she was going to tell him she was tired; had too many aches, too little energy, too little mobility and independence; had outlived so many of her family and her friends.

  World-weary. Life offers no more hope, no more surprises. One’s dreams are only of the past. It’s just a question now of getting through with what degree of dignity one can manage to cling onto.

  He would have known exactly what she meant. Despite her pleasant room, despite her books.

  Despite, even, a messenger encircled in light behind Tiffany’s: a heavenly torchbearer handing on his torch?

  Then he felt guilty. That his lack of sleep was catching up on him wasn’t any mitigation. He quickly sought forgiveness.

  “I don’t mind dying,” she said, “because…well, because there are great numbers of nice people who are dead.”

  He thought about this. “People you’ve known?”

  “Yes. And a great many more I haven’t.”

  He smiled.

  “Of course,” she added, “you may say, and naturally I’d agree, that there are great numbers of nice people who are living. But how many of them do you ever get to meet? In this world?”

  He sighed.

  She looked at him inquiringly.

  “I foresee,” he said, “a thoroughly exhausting eternity. I’d been hoping for a bit of peace.”

  “Now, stop it! It won’t be an unending series of coffee mornings, which I can tell is how you picture it. Besides, attendance would only be optional.”

  “Mind you.” He laughed. “What coffee mornings! Leonardo da Vinci, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Abraham Lincoln. Don’t quote me if I say this, but a mite more interesting than anything we usually get at St Matthew’s.”

  They became more serious.

  “How long have I got, vicar?”

  He spoke about Christmas. He stroked her hand, entirely without knowing he did so.

  “Listen, Mrs Beecham, let’s get back to basics for an instant. Only think of what Jesus has said—and St Paul—to give us comfort and encouragement in any situation whatsoever.”

  They spent at least ten minutes in reminding themselves.

  15

  In that morning’s post there’d been a letter from their daughter Janice.

  “Oh!” said Dawn, reading it. “Oh! All the good things are coming at once.”

  “What is it?” In spite of his severely interrupted night, Josh had got up at more or less his normal time. He was currently mashing the tea.

  “She’ll be here for lunch tomorrow. She says she’s sorry that it’s such short notice.”

  The nursing school was in Sheffield. Usually she got home at least once a month, and for the whole weekend, not just for Sunday lunch. “Well, what’s so wonderful about that?”

  “It says—listen—it says, ‘Do you mind if I bring Don? He’s someone rather special.’”

  “Who?”

  “Yes, you’re right, I’m sure it’s not a name she’s ever mentioned. The little monkey. Oh, she’s an artful one.”

  “What else does she say?”

  “Nothing. Except that he doesn’t like peas much, or apples. What a weekend this is going to be! Heaven knows how we’re ever going to cope but…Do you realize, Josh, that this is the first time our Janice has brought home a young man? And from the sound of it, I’d say, it might even be the last! He must be one of the doctors, wouldn’t you think?”

  She handed him the letter with a dreamy expression.

  “Fancy a man who doesn’t care for peas or apples!” he exclaimed.

  Michael arrived for his breakfast; even at weekends (or, for that matter, during the school holidays or at any other time) slothfulness was not permitted; no greater concession made—or dispensation given, said Josh—than one short extra hour in bed. “Who doesn’t care for peas or apples?”

  “Some man your sister’s bringing home.”

  “Blimey! Is she going to marry him?”

  “What, at nineteen? She’d be a fool if she did.”

  “I was only nineteen,” said Dawn.

  “Attitudes have changed in the past twenty years.” Josh brought their four mugs over to the table.

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Then you must be one of the few women in the whole country who doesn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t want her living with anyone.”

  She glanced anxiously at Michael as she said this.

  Josh laughed. “Especially somebody who didn’t like fruit and veg! It sounds positively unwholesome to me. Unclean.” He got up from the table, to fetch a new jar of marmalade; and having done so ruffled Michael’s hair. “Thank God we never had fastidious children. Ugh! I bet he’s all covered in pimples!”

  “Stop that, please!” said Dawn. “You really aren’t being funny.”

  He and Michael exchanged a covert smile. Michael clearly thought he was.

  A few minutes later William came in, who wasn’t all covered in pimples. Josh, on his feet again, his breakfast done with, gave a small frown. For a moment he’d forgotten. Then he laid an affectionate arm round William’s shoulders. “There, that’s what you get as a reward for eating up your cabbage! And your carrots! My word, but you look handsome!”

  “Oh, Dad…!”

  William pulled away, embarrassed.

  “Anyhow, I’m off for a workout. See you all later. And don’t forget to tell Billy the good news!”

  The Tannery was in Mary Street. Josh had become a member there four years before and had paid his first seventy-five pounds out of his savings. After that he had methodically held back three pounds every fortnight from his supplementary benefits. It had never occurred to Dawn to ask how he kept up his membership. To him this membership was more than just important; it was vital. In having developed his body he had done something constructive with his enforced leisure. It was the thing which had helped him most not only to hold onto his self-respect but even to enhance it.

  He went three times a week: for a workout and a shower and a brief time on the sunbed. (He didn’t want to be mahogany, just very li
ghtly tanned.) He pretended to laugh at it, but was prepared to strive unflaggingly for things that he believed in.

  Once, at the beginning, he had been sick after a particularly violent workout. Once, he had almost fainted. He wondered if he ought to see the doctor; on occasions he imagined pains in his chest, felt sick again—with fear. He questioned his priorities, resolved to give the whole thing up, then returned for an equally gruelling workout. It was at these times, surviving the session following the fear, that he felt unusually elated. He was continually testing himself. More than that. Continually pushing himself, continually forcing himself to surpass his own previous performance. When he was buoyant he didn’t believe he would bring on any heart attack; when he was depressed he muttered that he didn’t care; it was a possibility he even courted. He didn’t want the pain, of course, but the solution—partial or entire, the rest or the oblivion—these sounded, at times, not undesirable: a welcome respite from his weariness, a final end to it. The strenuous exercise itself, however, especially if coupled with the beating of some record, almost invariably got rid of his depression.

  This morning, for instance: for a while he totally forgot Janice and her ‘somebody rather special’; he totally forgot that pustules on his son’s face and neck had ever existed. And even during those moments when these things did come back to him they had grown more bearable: minor irritations around the periphery, rather than unthinkable threats full at the centre. On Saturday mornings the gym was at its most crowded; there were generally at least a dozen people. He didn’t mind this. The place was small and it meant he might have to wait longer to use equipment but he enjoyed the atmosphere of clublike masculinity, the simple camaraderie made up of shared interests and a spirit of easygoing rivalry.

  On a Saturday morning, though, he was often more aware of the absurdity of it all. Every aid to manly development appeared to be in constant use: the thigh machine and the lat machine and the curling machine and the rowing machine and the standing-press machine; the abdominal boards and the bench press and the power jog and the multi-purpose exerciser and the bike; the barbells and the dumbbells. Oh the pain of it, the grunting and the sweat, oh the heartfelt determination! Oh the concentration on the biceps or the triceps or the deltoid or the calf, the striving for perfection, for the godlike build, when in countries like South America people screamed out from the effects of torture, or in Beirut soldiers were having limbs blown off, when half the world was dying from starvation, when even in civilized England babies were mugged and little girls had their faces set on fire. Who ever knew what atrocities were being perpetrated in any part of the globe at any given instant, what accidents were taking place, what howls of agony were right now, somewhere, ripping at the air? Most of the men who came to the gym were younger than he was but one or two were older; did they all think (did he think) that they were going to turn themselves into objects of irresistible desire? Did they suppose (did he suppose) that, even if they did, it was going to make the world a better place for anybody, anywhere, other than (perhaps) themselves and the lucky women who might benefit from all their bulked-up charms? It was absurd all right.