A Dead Man Out of Mind (12 page)

Psalm 71.18

Rachel Nightingale wheeled her bicycle into the entrance hall, tucked it into a corner, and locked it just for good measure; in Cambridge she'd lost more than one bicycle by placing too much faith in the basic honesty of humankind. Then she let herself into her ground-floor flat and peeled off her coat and gloves as she headed towards the kitchen to put the kettle on.

It was still quite early on a chill Thursday morning in February, a morning on which it had taken more than the usual amount of discipline and determination to get her out of bed in the dark and launch her forth on her bicycle into the damp fog. But she'd never yet missed a morning of visiting Colin. She liked to be there early, when he woke up. Or rather when he would have woken – such terms denoting changes in state, or indeed indicating consciousness of any kind, were no longer applicable to Colin; he was in what the doctors called ‘PVS', or persistent vegetative state, his bed surrounded by complicated monitors. But morning after morning Rachel ignored the medical paraphernalia and concentrated instead on the man in the bed. Invariably she sat by his side for half an hour, reading to him quietly from a scientific journal or a favourite novel, her voice low-pitched and soothing. When the half-hour was up, and the nurses began hovering about, anxious to get on with their day's routine, she would stroke his face, tell him that she loved him, and promise that she would return in the evening.

She spent up to an hour with him each evening, during which she would tell him about her day, describing all of the new people she had met. Rachel had a gift for mimicry; often, in the old days, she had made Colin roar with laughter at her spot-on impression of a fellow don, a difficult student or a well-known Cambridge eccentric. Now she included comical descriptions of her new parishioners in her monologue, believing that Colin would find them all very amusing.

The nurses told her that she was wasting her time, and wasting her breath: that Colin didn't know she was there, couldn't possibly understand her, and probably couldn't even hear her. But morning after morning and night after night she went, still trusting in spite of everything in the power of love to reach him somehow, perhaps in some manner or through some dimension that was known only to God.

Waiting for the kettle to boil, Rachel rubbed her hands together to warm them. Cycling in this weather wasn't very pleasant; though the exercise itself engendered enough heat to keep a well-clad body moderately warm, the hands and the face invariably suffered. Cycling had become a way of life for Rachel: since the accident, she had been unable to bring herself to get in a car again. Most of the time she didn't mind, but on this raw morning she was really looking forward to a cup of tea, hot and strong.

She turned on the hot-water tap and rinsed out the teapot, looking out of the window into the still-wintry garden. There had been a ground frost the night before, and the few brave daffodils which had poked swollen green heads through the grass were rimed with white. In the summer the garden would be pleasant, Rachel reflected.

She'd only been in the flat in Pimlico for about a week. She'd been lucky to find it: it was spacious and well-kept, and though it wasn't as near to Colin as she would have liked, its location mid-way between St Jude's and St Margaret's churches made it most convenient for her work. The previous curate had, she understood, lived in a house in St Margaret's parish that was owned by the church, but the churchwardens had made it clear to Rachel that the house was no longer available, and she would have to find herself a place to live. This she had done, and had moved in the week before. Already she was establishing a routine for herself: Colin first, and early Mass at St Jude's on the way home. A quick cup of tea, and perhaps a bite to eat, before a full day of parish duties. Then a simple supper – she knew that she was too thin, that she didn't eat enough, but it just wasn't a priority – and up to an hour with Colin at the end of the day. Sometimes, she knew, it would be necessary to attend parish meetings or carry out other responsibilities in the evenings, in which case she would have a shorter time with Colin. But she would never fail to go to him, even if she could spend but a few minutes at his bedside.

So far she was finding her parish work interesting. The people at St Jude's had welcomed her with a fair degree of warmth, and had made her feel that her work there was valued. St Margaret's was a different story, of course. It was ironic, she reflected: the Anglo-Catholic churchmanship at St Margaret's was actually much more to her taste than the middle-of-the-road blandness of St Jude's. Though her faith, reached through intense suffering and adversity, was deep and personal, she enjoyed the ceremonial of Anglo-Catholic liturgy and found that the appeal to the senses – incense, vestments, music – enhanced her ability to worship. It was a great shame that the people at St Margaret's seemed unable to accept her at face value, and to recognise the validity of her feeling of vocation.

Even within St Margaret's, though, she had met with a variety of reactions. Most of the parishioners were guardedly polite, in a typically English sort of way. She was learning early on which ones to avoid – though in some cases that was scarcely necessary. The sacristan, Robin West, disappeared in the opposite direction whenever he saw her coming, refusing even to speak to her, and there were a few others who behaved similarly. The churchwardens didn't have the luxury of avoiding her. Martin Bairstow treated her curtly, looking down on her from his superior height as though she were some lower life-form or perhaps a visitor from another planet. His wife, Rachel sensed, was in fact quite kindly disposed towards her; in their limited contact Vanessa Bairstow had been friendly, her manner inviting closer acquaintance. Norman Topping, too, seemed much less hostile than Rachel would have expected. On Tuesday evening at the Shrove Tuesday pancake supper, her first real introduction to parish life at St Margaret's, she had caught him more than once looking at her with something approaching a smile, and at one point she could have sworn that he winked at her.

The only person to treat her with blatant and deliberate rudeness was Dolly Topping. Rachel supposed that she shouldn't be surprised, given what she knew about Mrs Topping and her views on women clergy, but it hurt nonetheless. Her attempt at friendly conversation had been rebuffed; loudly, for all to hear, Dolly had made it clear that as far as she was concerned, Rachel was the worst thing that had happened to St Margaret's in its long history, and that once she was ordained a priest (or a ‘so-called priest'), Dolly would no longer be able to worship in the church that she had loved for so many years. ‘I don't know what you women are trying to prove,' she declared, ‘but I hope you can live with the destruction of the Universal Church on your conscience!'

It made all the more curious the phone call which Rachel had received the previous morning, the day after the pancake supper. A tentative female voice had identified itself as belonging to Nicola Topping, and had requested a meeting at Rachel's earliest convenience.

Rachel had a vague memory of a rather large girl hovering somewhere in the background on Shrove Tuesday. ‘I'm afraid today's not much good,' she had apologised. ‘Ash Wednesday, you know. Father Keble Smythe has asked me to be at all the services, to assist with the ashings. How about tomorrow?'

They had agreed on a time on Thursday afternoon, after school. ‘Would you like to come to my flat?' Rachel had suggested.

‘Oh, yes, please. I couldn't possibly ask you to come to my house,' the girl had replied. ‘I'm sure you understand.'

Now, sipping her tea at the kitchen table, Rachel wondered what Nicola Topping might want with her. At any rate, her curiosity would soon be satisfied – after a morning of calls on elderly parishioners, and lunch with her old friend from Cambridge, Emily Neville.

Her first call was on Walter Bright, a retired doctor who was recovering from a mild bout of the flu. Dr Bright hadn't felt well enough to make it to any of the Ash Wednesday services at St Margaret's, and had requested that the Sacrament be brought to him. Rachel hoped that he wouldn't mind receiving it from the hands of a woman.

Father Keble Smythe hadn't told her much about Dr Bright, other than that he had been in general practice in the area for many years, and that he was universally beloved in the community and in the parish. ‘He's a splendid old chap, Dr Bright,' he'd said. ‘A great character. His heyday was well before my time, of course, but there are still many people in the parish who were brought into the world by Dr Bright, or were looked after by him for much of their lives. He's a real institution in the parish, is Dr Bright.'

The door of the double-fronted house was opened by a small, spare woman with faded gingery-grey hair and a face etched deeply with lines of resignation. She was wearing a cotton housecoat and an apron; from her age, which she surmised to be around seventy, Rachel assumed that she was Dr Bright's wife, though she could possibly be his housekeeper. ‘Mrs Bright?' she asked tentatively.

‘
Miss
Bright, actually,' said the woman, taking in the dog collar and stepping aside for Rachel to enter. ‘Vera Bright. I'm Dr Bright's daughter. And you must be the new curate.'

‘Yes, I'm Rachel Nightingale. It's so nice to meet you, Miss Bright.' If this is his daughter, she thought, how old must Dr Bright be?

‘My father is in the drawing room. It's so kind of you to come – he was very distressed to miss Mass yesterday. But this flu has left him rather weak – he's usually as strong as a horse, my father, but he
is
ninety-six.'

Ninety-six! thought Rachel. Born in the last century, when Queen Victoria was on the throne.

Walter Bright, dressed nattily in a tweed suit and club tie, rose to his feet without any evident effort when the two women entered the room. He was a short, wiry man, rather bird-like in appearance, with a beaky nose under small dark eyes and a round head covered with sparse downy hair. Putting his head to one side, he regarded Rachel with a welcoming grin. ‘So! The Vicar has sent me his new curate instead of coming himself!'

‘I'm sorry that Father Keble Smythe couldn't come,' Rachel began apologetically.

‘Not at all! You're much better looking than he is, my dear. At least to my old eyes,' he twinkled. ‘Come closer and let me see you.'

She moved up to him and took his hand. ‘I'm Rachel Nightingale.'

‘Is that Miss or Mrs? And what am I to call you, may I ask? I can't very well call you “Father”, can I?'

‘It's “Mrs”,' she replied, keeping her voice steady as a momentary vision of Colin flashed through her mind. ‘And you may call me Rachel, if you like. You don't have any objection to receiving the Sacrament from a woman?'

‘Not if she's as pretty as you are, my dear,' he said with a wink. But his eyes were shrewd as he went on, ‘Seriously, I don't see that it makes the slightest difference. I know there are some people at St Margaret's who get hot and bothered about it all, but I don't imagine that God cares.'

‘In Christ there is no male or female,' Rachel quoted, smiling.

‘Exactly.' Dr Bright sat down and addressed his daughter, who was still standing near the door, for the first time. ‘Vera, why don't you go and put the kettle on? I'm sure that Rachel would like a cup of coffee, once she's given me the Sacrament.'

Rachel turned to see the other woman's hesitation. ‘Perhaps you'd like the Sacrament as well?' she suggested. ‘Or were you able to make it to church yesterday?'

‘No, I didn't make it to church. I can't possibly leave Father when he's poorly,' Vera said. She shot her father an unreadable look. ‘And I'd very much like to have the Sacrament, if you don't mind.'

‘Well, come on then, girl,' Dr Bright ordered. ‘Let's get this business over with first. Then you can make the coffee.'

On her long cycle ride to the Archdeacon's house, Rachel had time to think about the visits she'd paid that morning. There had been three of them altogether, but of all her jumbled impressions she found that it was Vera Bright to whom her thoughts returned again and again.

Vera had escorted her to the door. ‘Thank you so much for coming,' she'd said.

Impulsively, Rachel had taken her hand. ‘It was my pleasure, meeting you and your father. If there's any way I can ever be of help, please don't hesitate to let me know.'

Her sincerity must have communicated itself; for just an instant there had been such a look of yearning and hope on Vera Bright's face that Rachel had been taken aback. But then the shutters had come down again, leaving the customary lines of resignation firmly in control of her expression. The memory of that momentary slip haunted Rachel: she wondered how she could reach Vera, how she might help her. She resolved to try to meet with her alone at the earliest opportunity.

With anticipation she wheeled her bicycle up the drive to the impressive-looking stone dwelling that served as the Archdeacon's residence. She'd known Emily Neville – at that time she'd been Emily Bates – fairly well at Cambridge and had always appreciated her intelligence and her straightforward approach to life. Now she looked forward to renewing the acquaintance; it would be nice to have a female friend in London, especially one who had known Colin in happier days.

‘Rachel! You can put your bike here around the corner if you like.' Emily came out of the house and embraced her with affection. ‘Are you hungry?'

‘Starved. Cycling this far really helps build up an appetite. Though,' she added, smiling, ‘I'm fairly awash with tea and coffee – I've just done three pastoral visits.' She locked the bike and followed Emily into the house.

Emily laughed. ‘Gabriel always says that's one of the clergy's greatest occupational hazards. You can't very well refuse when it's offered, can you?'