We sat in bed reading. She was the first to turn out the light. The evening felt incomplete. I lay on my back and stared up into the darkness.
‘Vanessa?’ I said softly. ‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you feel about making love when you have a period?’ It had suddenly occurred to me that it might be several days before we had an opportunity to do it again. ‘I should say that I don’t mind it, myself.’
‘Actually, it’s very painful for me. I have heavy periods. I’m sorry.’
‘Not to worry,’ I said; I turned and put my arm around her. ‘It doesn’t matter. Sleep well. God bless.’
As usual, her hand gripped mine. I lay there, my penis as erect as a guardsman on parade, listening to the sound of her breathing.
After our return from Italy, Vanessa and I slipped into the new routine of our shared lives. We were even happy, in a fragmentary fashion, as humans are happy. Though what was in store was rooted in ourselves – in our personalities and our histories – we had no inkling of what was coming. As humans do, we kept secrets from ourselves, and from each other.
Towards the end of May, Peter and June Hudson came to supper. They were our first real guests. The meal was something of a celebration. Peter had been offered preferment. Though there had been no official announcement, he was to be the next Bishop of Rosington.
‘It’s a terrifying prospect,’ June said placidly. ‘No more lurking in the background for me. No more communing with the kitchen sink. I shall have to be a proper Mrs Bishop and shake hands with the County.’
‘You could be a Mrs Proudie,’ Vanessa suggested. ‘Rule your husband’s diocese with a rod of iron.’
‘It sounds quite attractive.’ She smiled at her husband. ‘I’m sure Peter wouldn’t mind. It would give the little woman something to do.’
The news unsettled me. I was not jealous of Peter’s preferment, though in the past I might have been. But inevitably the prospect of his going to Rosington awakened memories.
After the meal, June and Vanessa took their coffee into the sitting room while Peter and I washed up.
‘When will you go to Rosington?’ I asked.
‘In the autumn. October, probably. I shall take a month off in August and try to prepare myself.’
I squirted a Z of washing-up liquid into a baking dish. ‘I’ll miss you. And June.’
‘You and Vanessa must come and visit. At least there’ll be plenty of space.’
‘I don’t know. Going back isn’t always such a good idea.’
‘Sometimes staying away is a worse one.’
‘Damn it, Peter. You don’t make it easy, do you?’
He dried a glass with the precision he brought to everything. We worked in silence for a moment. It was a muggy evening and suddenly I felt desperate for air. I opened the back door to put out the rubbish. Lord Peter streaked into the kitchen.
Had I been by myself, I would have shouted at him. But I did not want Peter – my friend, not the cat – to think me more unbalanced than he already did. When I returned from the dustbin, I found that the two Peters had formed a mutual admiration society.
‘I didn’t know you liked cats.’
‘Oh yes. Is this one yours?’
‘It belongs to one of my parishioners.’
The cat purred. Peter, who was crouching beside it with a pipe in his mouth, glanced up at me. ‘You don’t like either of them very much?’
‘She’s a good woman. A churchwarden.’
‘Is that an answer?’
‘It’s all you’re going to get.’
‘I shall miss our regular meetings.’
‘So shall I.’
‘When I go to Rosington, you’ll need a new spiritual director.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘A change will do you good.’ Peter’s voice was suddenly stern, and the cat wriggled away from him. ‘Perhaps we know each other too well. A new spiritual director may be more useful to you.’
‘I’d rather continue with you.’
‘It just wouldn’t be practical. We shall be too far away from each other. You need to see someone regularly. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes. If you say so.’ My voice sounded sullen, almost petulant.
‘I do say so. Like one of those high-performance engines, you need constant tuning.’ He smiled at me. ‘Otherwise you break down.’
If it hadn’t been for sex, or rather the lack of it, Vanessa and I would probably still be married. There was real friendship between us, and much tenderness. We filled some of the empty corners in each other’s lives. A semi-detached marriage? Perhaps. If so, the arrangement suited us both. Vanessa had her job, I had mine.
One of the things I loved most was her sense of humour, which was so dry that at times I barely noticed it. On one occasion she almost reduced Audrey to tears – of rage – by suggesting that we invited the pop group that played on Saturday nights at the Queen’s Head to perform at Evensong. ‘It would encourage young people to come to church, don’t you think?’
On another occasion, one afternoon early in August, Vanessa and I were in our little library on the green. Vanessa took her books to the issue desk, to be stamped by Mrs Finch, the librarian. Audrey was hovering like a buzzard poised to strike in front of the section devoted to detective stories.
‘I’d also like to make a reservation for a book that’s coming out in the autumn,’ Vanessa said in a clear, carrying voice. ‘The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer.’
I glanced up in time to see a look of outrage flash between Mrs Finch and Audrey.
Mrs Finch closed the last of Vanessa’s library books, placed it on top of the others and pushed the pile across the issue desk. She jabbed the book cards into the tickets; the cardboard buckled and creased under the strain. She directed her venom at inanimate objects because by and large she was too timid to direct it at people.
While Vanessa was filling in the reservation card, I joined her at the issue desk to have my own books stamped. Audrey swooped on us; today her colour was high, perhaps because of the heat. ‘So glad I caught you,’ she said, her eyes flicking from me to Vanessa. ‘I wanted a word about the fete.’
I did not dare look at Vanessa. The annual church fete was a delicate subject. It was held in my garden on the last Saturday in August. Audrey had organized it for the past nine years. Although she would almost certainly have resisted any attempt to relieve her of the responsibility, she felt organizing the church fete was properly the job of the vicar’s wife. She had made this quite clear to both Vanessa and me in a number of indirect ways in the past few weeks.
Vanessa, on the other hand, was determined not to act as my unpaid curate in this capacity or in any other, and I respected her for the decision. We had agreed this before our marriage. She had a demanding and full-time job of her own, and had little enough spare time as it was: I could not expect her suddenly to take on more work, even if she had wanted to.
This year we had another problem to deal with. This was the suburbs, so many of our patrons came in cars.