The exterior of the church was as unpretentious as its interior, adorned only by some corbels carved as grotesque heads, but the situation was attractive, upon a small eminence with fine beech trees, and with a graveyard of handsomely lettered gravestones, dating from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries with little change in style. The vicarage had been pulled down and Father McAlister lived in a little modern house in the village.
It had been agreed that the churchgoers, who had come directly to the church by a footpath, should return the longer way via the village so as to join Gull and Lily at the Pike and even have some drinks there as lunch was to be cold and as late as they pleased. The congregation, all known to Rose, were straggling along toward the village, but Rose’s party lingered a moment to enjoy the view of the older village houses, a section of the Roman Road, the roofs of Boyars visible over garden trees, and further off and higher up the wood decked with snow. Coats, prudently removed in church, had been
hastily put on again, together with gloves and scarves and (except for Gerard) headgear. Tamar had put on a little close-fitting felt hat. She did not answer Jenkin’s question, perhaps had not heard it. The sun was still shining and their footsteps, crunching through the frozen surface of the snow, made a pleasant brittle sound as they now walked along, Rose first arm in arm with Annushka, Gerard and Jenkin behind with Tamar between them.
They had walked only a little way when there was a sound of someone running behind them. It was Father McAlister. They all stopped.
The priest had doffed his vestments and put on an overcoat. As he ran towards them he held his cassock gathered up into one hand. He had a black beret on his head, perched above his ears. He looked younger, red with cold, somewhat unshaven. When he reached them he stopped and stretched out his bare hands on either side in a gesture which might have expressed apology, or some kind of availability as in a blessing. He addressed Rose in a firm authoritative voice, with a very slight Scottish accent. ‘Miss Curtland, forgive me – but could you introduce me to this young lady?’ Without turning to her he indicated Tamar.
Rose, surprised, said, ‘Yes, of course. Miss Hernshaw. Tamar, Father McAlister.’
The priest went on, still not looking at Tamar. ‘Would you mind if I talked to Miss Hernshaw for a few minutes – if she is willing, that is?’
Rose, ruffled by this sudden intrusion, and wanting to protect Tamar, said, ‘Well, just now we’re going to join some friends –’
Tamar said at once, ‘I’ll go with him. I’ll be back for lunch, don’t wait – I won’t be long.’ She turned and began to walk back towards the church. The priest followed her.
‘Really!’ said Rose. ‘What’s all that about? I think it’s cheek! What can he want?’
‘He saw her face,’ said Jenkin. ‘He thinks she’s afflicted.’
‘It’s not his business! He’ll upset her!’ Rose felt indignant and distressed. She had understood that Tamar was ill, she
had tried to help her. Now this interfering priest had taken her away.
‘I’ll wait here,’ said Rose.
‘Better let her come back by herself,’ suggested Jenkin.
After some hesitation they walked on toward the village. As they came near they saw Lily and Gulliver coming out to meet them, sliding on the trodden snow.
Tamar went first into the church and sat down where she had sat during the service, and Father McAlister came and sat beside her, looking at her. He pulled off his beret and his overcoat.
‘Won’t you take off your coat?’
Tamar did not take off her coat, but she unbuttoned it and took off her little blue felt hat with the narrow brim and looked at Father McAlister with her wild green-brown eyes. She rolled up her hat and thrust it into her pocket. Then she ran both hands through her straight short silky hair, straining it back from her face. ‘What is it?’
‘There is no one here,’ said the priest. ‘We are alone here. Except for the Divine Presence.’
‘What did you want to say?’
‘You are in grief. You look as if you are in mourning. Have you lost a loved one?’
‘No.’
‘Then what is the matter?’
‘Why on earth should I tell you?’
‘I am a minister of God. In talking to me you talk to God.’
‘I don’t believe in God,’ said Tamar.
‘Let us not worry about words,’ said Father McAlister. ‘We are in the presence of what is holy, of Christ crucified and Christ risen. Christ saves – that is the reality in our lives. Did you know Jesus when you were a child?’
‘No. Only – well – at school – but, no –’
‘Were you baptised, confirmed?’
‘No, my mother didn’t like those things, she didn’t approve of them. I can’t think why you –’
‘Don’t be proud with me, child, I am nothing, a servant, an instrument, a slave. And yet something, a vehicle of love. You need love. Belief does not matter. It is need that matters. Tell me your first name, I didn’t catch it when Miss Curtland spoke it.’
‘Tamar.’
‘Ah, a name from the Bible.’
‘I was named after the river.’ This was an idea put into Tamar’s head by one of her earliest school teachers.
‘I want you, whatever your trouble may be, to turn to Jesus, to the living Christ, who is more real to us than God, closer to us than God, closer to us than ourselves –’
‘Thank you,’ said Tamar, ‘I know you mean well and I thank you for your kindness. I hear what you say. Now I must go.’
She made to rise but Father McAlister had suddenly taken her wrist in a strong grip and held her where she was. ‘I want you to know that you have a Saviour to whom
nothing is impossible.
You need love. Perhaps you need forgiveness. You need healing. Turn to the boundless perfect love which heals and pardons. Kneel, Tamar.’
Tamar slipped down onto her knees, onto one of the soft beautiful embroidered kneelers which Rose liked so much. As soon as she had felt the priest’s hand holding her ever so firmly tears had gathered in her eyes. Now they began to pour down her cheeks and she sobbed.
Father McAlister released his hold and falling on his knees beside her began to pray, looking up into the white light. ‘O Lord Jesus Christ, master and king, merciful judge, giver of that peace which the world cannot give, who healeth the hidden heart and taketh away the sin of those who with true repentance turn unto Thee, falling wearied and broken at Thy blessed feet –’ He stopped abruptly, and there was silence except for Tamar’s sobs. She hid her face in her hands and the tears ran through her fingers and down over her thin wrists and onto her coat. He said to her, in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Come on – tell me all about it!’
Still crying and drooping her head, she began to tell him. One of the things which Tamar told the priest in the sun-lit snow-lit church was that she was pregnant.
‘How is your father?’ said Crimond.
‘He’s dead,’ said Gerard.
‘Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘He died last June. He’d had cancer for some time. How is your father?’
‘Soldiering on. He’s older than yours if I remember. He has a heart condition.’
‘I’m sorry –’
‘I remember your father, we met at Oxford, and later again in London. He was very kind to me.’
Gerard could not remember Crimond meeting his father, but it had evidently happened.
Crimond had followed Gerard into the dining room. It was Thursday at ten o’clock and Crimond had arrived punctually to be asked to give his ‘explanation’. It was a dark day and the snow had disappeared from London.
After some reflection Gerard had decided to have the meeting in the dining room, sitting at the table. It seemed more business-like, less relaxed, the room was darker and more enclosed. He had thought of putting out paper and pens as for a committee, but this had seemed ridiculous. The highly polished dining table had nothing on it. Two chairs were placed, not far apart, at one end, the other chairs were against the wall.
Gerard had been annoyed the previous evening, when he returned from the London Library, to find that Gideon and Patricia, just back from Venice, had begun to put up Christmas decorations and had started with the dining room. The two lamps which he had put on filled the room with reflected points of light on elaborate glittering red chains and on the shiny scarlet and green holly branches which had been liberally stuffed in behind the Japanese paintings. Patricia had asked him to bring some holly from Boyars, but he had forgotten, so she had bought some at Harrods. He had mentioned casually,
so as to avoid fuss if they found out later, that Crimond was coming to see him on business and they were to be left alone. Of course Pat and Gideon were extremely interested, but had expressed no sinister intent of joining in. Rose of course had been absurdly nervous about the meeting, and had ended by making Gerard nervous. He had told her that he would give Crimond about an hour, that their business, which would be simple enough, should be finished within less than that time, and yes, all right, she could ring him if she wanted to after eleven. Gerard had decided to make things as perfunctory as possible. Crimond would get the message. Gerard didn’t want a showdown, he simply wanted to ask a few polite questions and would be satisfied with vague answers. He would be, as Jenkin had put it, ‘going through the motions’.
Crimond’s arrival had disturbed him more than he expected. They had stood in the hall and exchanged remarks about the weather while Crimond had taken off his scarf and overcoat. They had stood by the dining table talking about the difficulty of parking one’s car. Then after a moment’s silence Crimond had asked about Gerard’s father.
It was a considerable time since they had met face to face. Gerard had shaved carefully and put on his bottle-green jacket and combed his hair and wondered if he looked older, and decided he did not. Crimond, he thought, did look a bit older. The brilliant dancing figure of the midsummer ball which Jenkin had compared with Shiva now seemed like something else, something seen in a vision, a manifestation of the essence of Crimond. The person who stood before Gerard in the rather dim light of the dining room looked tired, was shabby, had been out in the cold. The glow, perhaps the freckles, had gone from the pallid countenance. Yet he was still very slim and straight, his longish hair retaining its red colour and its springy wave, his face smooth except for the wrinkles round the eyes. The eyes, in spite of the polite remarks, were hard and wary. He was neat and well-shaved and wearing a tie, but his jacket and his shirt were well worn, the shirt frayed, the jacket, and not recently, patched at the elbows.
‘Do sit down,’ said Gerard, indicating a chair. He had
decided beforehand where each of them should sit. They sat.
‘I remember those pictures from your flat in Chelsea,’ said Crimond. This was the flat which Gerard had shared with Sinclair. He added, ‘And I think at the other flat –’
‘Yes. I had some. I’ve collected a few more.’
Crimond brought a notebook and a pen out of his pocket and arranged them side by side on the table. Then he stared expectantly at Gerard. This might have been a moment for a smile, but neither of them smiled. Crimond’s long nose wrinkled slightly. Gerard felt awkward and uneasy. He said, ‘It’s kind of you to come here.’
‘It’s kind of you to ask me.’
‘As I said in my letter, it’s just about the book.’
‘Yea.’
‘How’s it getting on?’
‘Fine.’
‘Is it finished?’
‘NO.’
‘You’re still writing it?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s just that – well, we felt, some of us felt, that we would like some sort of progress report on how the book was developing, what it’s turning out to be about –’
Crimond raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s about politics. It’s the same book.’
‘Yes, but – what sort of politics? I mean, you used to be rather extreme, and – especially since the book
is
so long – we wondered if – we thought it might be rather more reflective and less – less inflammatory –’
‘Oh yes,’ said Crimond flatly, as if Gerard had answered his own question.
‘It’s not a revolutionary book?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I mean advocating violence and –?’
‘Look,’ said Crimond, ‘who’s “we”? You say “we felt” and “we thought”.’
‘I mean the committee.’
Who is the committee now?’
‘Well, just me and Jenkin and Rose and Gulliver Ashe. My father’s gone, of course.’
‘Why Gulliver Ashe?’
‘We co-opted him.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gerard. ‘Perhaps we should have told you, it just didn’t seem necessary –’
‘I see. Look, Hernshaw, is this about money? Is it that you don’t want to pay up any more?’
‘No,’ said Gerard, ‘it’s not about money!’
‘Perhaps you all feel that
now
I don’t need to be supported by
you?
’
Gerard took a moment to understand what Crimond meant so far had it been from his thoughts. ‘No, we don’t think that!’
‘I am not using anyone else’s money, except yours, that is.’ Crimond’s pale face flushed for a moment, and he put his hand up to his cheek.
Gerard did not like to mention Jean’s name, but he wanted to assure Crimond that none of them had calculated that Crimond would now be rich! ‘Of course. We never for a moment –
that’s
not what we –’
‘So it’s about your own money, why shouldn’t it be – you feel you can’t afford me any more?’
‘No, we can, we will –’
‘What’s it all about then?’
‘Crimond, just
think
– you’ve been writing this book for years and years and we don’t know what’s in it! In a sense we’ve been responsible for it, we’ll be regarded as having sort of commissioned it, and as agreeing with it!’
‘You did not
commission
it.’
‘All right, but you see –’
‘Perhaps you should have thought of all this earlier.’
‘Well, we’re thinking of it now.’
‘I can’t see what this interrogation is supposed to achieve,’ said Crimond in a thoughtful tone. ‘You agreed to finance the book – all right, it’s taking a long time. You say this is not about money. I don’t see that you can have anything else to
say about the book, except that you disagree with it, or you think it’s rotten. Do you imagine I’m going to alter it to please you and Rose and Jenkin?