Don't Look Now (28 page)

Miss Dean became aware of some sort of scuffle in the trees behind her. Could the menfolk have climbed over the stones and wandered into what seemed like private property? Then she heard a man laugh, and a woman whisper 'Shshsh!'

'It's all right,' murmured the man, 'it's only Miss Dean. Sitting all on her own lamenting the absence of her beloved vicar.'

'If she only knew,' came the answering murmur, 'that he hides whenever he sees her walking up the vicarage drive. She's the thorn in his flesh, he told Mum once. Pursued him for years, despite her age.'

There was a sound of stifled laughter, and then suddenly Jim Foster coughed loudly and emerged from the cluster of dark trees, Jill Smith at his heels.

'Well, well, Miss Dean,' he said, 'what a surprise. We've been looking for the rest of the party. Ah, isn't that Kate standing up the road with Lady Althea? And some more of them coming from the opposite direction? Rendezvous all round.' He held out his hand to Jill and helped her over the stones. 'Now, Miss Dean, what about you? Will you take my arm?'

'Thank you, Mr Foster,' she said quietly, 'I can manage on my own.'

Jill Smith threw a quick look down the path. Bob was there, and the Rev. Babcock and young Robin. Robin was chattering and waving a torch. It would look better if she stayed with Miss Dean. She nudged Jim Foster with her elbow, and immediately he understood and began walking alone up the path to where Kate and Lady Althea were standing.

'Hullo, hullo there,' he called, 'we all seem to have been going round in circles. I can't think how I came to miss you.'

The tight-lipped expression on his wife's face made him hesitate a moment, then he smiled, and strolled up to her casually, self-confident.

'Sorry, old girl,' he said. 'Been here long?'

He put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

'Twenty minutes at least,' she replied. 'More like half-an-hour.'

The three of them turned their heads as Robin came running towards them flicking the light of his torch in all their faces.

'Oh, Mr Foster,' he called delightedly, 'that looked so sinister as you kissed Mrs Foster. You could have been Judas. Mr Babcock and I have had a tremendous time. We've been right down to Gethsemane and back on our own.'

'In that case, where were you?' Kate turned to her husband.

'Oh, Mr Foster and Mrs Smith were under the trees through the gap in that wall,' said Robin, 'and I'm afraid they can't have had a very good view of Jerusalem. I flashed my torch on you once, Mr Foster, but your back was turned.'

Thank God for that, thought Jim Foster. Because if it hadn't been turned ...

'What I want to know is what in the world has become of Phil?' asked Lady Althea.

'Oh, he returned to the hotel,' said Jim Foster, relieved that attention had switched from him. 'I passed him as I was coming down. Said he was cold and had had enough of it.'

'Cold?' queried Lady Althea. 'Phil's never cold. What an extraordinary thing for him to say.'

Slowly the little party began to wind their way back up the path towards the hotel on the summit. They walked in couples, Lady Althea and Robin in the lead, the Fosters following closely behind in silence, and some distance in the rear the young Smiths, hotly arguing.

'Naturally I preferred to go out rather than sit with you soaking in the bar,' Jill was saying. 'I felt thoroughly ashamed of you.'

'Ashamed?' Bob answered. 'That's fine, coming from you. How do you think I felt when Mrs Foster asked me to help find her husband? I knew very well where he was. And so do you.'

The Rev. Babcock held back with Miss Dean. It would only distress her to hear the young couple quarrelling. They must really work things out between them. There was nothing in the world he could do. Miss Dean herself, generally such a chatterbox, was strangely silent.

'I'm so sorry,' he began awkwardly, 'that things haven't turned out quite as you had hoped. I know I make a poor substitute for your vicar. Never mind, you'll be able to describe everything to him when we return on board. It's been a wonderful experience for all of us to have walked above the Garden of Gethsemane by night.'

Miss Dean did not hear him. She was many hundreds of miles away. She was walking up the vicarage drive, a basket over her arm, and suddenly she saw a figure dart from behind the curtain in the study window and efface itself against the wall. When she rang the bell nobody answered.

'Are you feeling all right, Miss Dean?' asked the Rev. Babcock.

'Thank you,' she said, 'I'm perfectly well. It's just that I'm very tired.'

Her voice faltered. She must not disgrace herself. She must not cry. It was just that she felt an overwhelming sense of loss, of betrayal....

'I can't imagine,' said. Lady Althea to Robin, 'why your grandfather went back to the hotel. Did he tell you he felt cold?'

'No,' replied Robin. 'He was talking to Mr Babcock about old days, and how he would have been given command of his regiment, but he had to leave the army because you weren't very well at the time, and your life was centred on Little Bletford. He didn't say anything about being cold, though. He just sounded rather sad.'

Left the army because of her? How could he have said such a thing, and to a stranger like Babcock? It wasn't true. It was very unjust. Phil had never for one moment hinted, all that time ago, that ... Or had he? Were things said and she hadn't listened, had brushed them away? But Phil had always appeared so content, so busy with the garden, and arranging his military papers and books in the library.... Doubt, guilt, bewilderment swept over her in turn. It had all happened so long ago. Why should Phil have suddenly felt resentful tonight? Have gone back on his own, not looked for her, even? Babcock must have said something to put Phil out, made some tactless remark.

One by one they climbed the hill, went into the hotel, hovered for a moment in the entrance to bid one another goodnight. Each member of the little party looked tired, strained. Robin could not understand it. He had enjoyed himself immensely, despite the cold. Why did everyone seem to be in such a bad mood? He kissed his grandmother goodnight, promised not to read late, and waited by the door of his bedroom for Mr Babcock to enter the room next door.

'Thank you for a splendid evening,' he said. 'I hope you liked it as much as I did.'

The Rev. Babcock summoned a smile. The boy was not so bad really. He couldn't help his precocity, spending most of his time with adults.

'Thank you, Robin,' he said. 'It was your idea, you know. I would never have thought of it on my own.' And then, quite spontaneously, he heard himself adding, 'I blame myself for not having made the walk more interesting for the rest of the party. They're all a bit lost without your vicar.'

Robin considered the matter, head cocked on one side. He liked being treated as an adult, it gave him status. He must say something to put poor Mr Babcock at his ease, and his mind harked back to the conversation between his grandparents earlier that evening before dinner.

'It must be difficult to be a clergyman in this day and age,' he said. 'Quite an ordeal, in fact.'

The Rev. Babcock looked surprised. 'Yes, it is. At least sometimes.'

Robin nodded gravely. 'My grandfather was saying people must make allowances, and my grandmother remarked that so many clergymen were not out of the top drawer nowadays. I'm not sure what that means exactly, but I suppose it's to do with passing exams. I hope you sleep well, Mr Babcock.'

He clicked his heels and bowed, as his grandmother had taught him to do, and went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He crossed the floor and drew aside the curtains. The lights were still burning bright in the city of Jerusalem.

'On that other 13th day of Nisan the disciples would all be scattered by now,' he thought, 'and only Peter left, stamping about to keep warm by the charcoal fire in the courtyard. That shows it was a cold night.'

He undressed and got into bed, then switched on his bedside light and spread the map of Jerusalem over his knees. He compared it with a second map that his father had borrowed for him, showing the city as it was around A.D. 30. He studied both maps for about half-an-hour, then, remembering the promise to his grandmother, switched off the light.

The priests and scholars have got it all wrong, he thought. They've made Jesus go out of the wrong gate. Tomorrow I shall discover Golgotha for myself.

'Visitors to the Holy City of Jerusalem, this way please.' 'You wish for a guide? English-speaking? German? American? The church of St Anne on your right, birthplace of the Virgin Mary.' 'Walk to your left and enter the superb Haram Esh Sharif, see the Dome of the Rock, the Dome of the Chain, the Al Aqsa Mosque.' 'This way, please, to the Jewish Quarter, the site of the Temple, the Wailing Wall.' 'Pilgrims to the Holy Sepulchre proceed by the Via Dolorosa straight ahead. Straight ahead for the Via Dolorosa, the Way of the Cross....'

Edward Babcock, standing just inside St Stephen's Gate with his small party, was besieged on all sides by guides of every nationality. He waved them aside. He carried a street map of his own, and a sheaf of scribbled instructions handed him at the last moment by the courier at the hotel.

'Let us all try and keep together,' he said, turning this way and that in search of his own little group amongst the pushing crowd. 'If we don't keep together we shan't see anything. The first thing to remember is that the Jerusalem we are going to visit has been built upon the foundations of the one that was known to Our Lord. We shall be walking, and standing many feet above where He walked and stood. That is to say ...'

He consulted his notes again, and the Colonel seized him by the arm.

'First things first,' he said briskly. 'Deploy your troops where they can take advantage of the ground. I suggest we lead off with the church of St Anne. Follow me.'

The signal was obeyed. The little flock trailed after the temporary shepherd to find themselves within a large courtyard, the church of St Anne on their right.

'Built by the Crusaders,' declaimed the Colonel. 'Finished in the twelfth century. They knew what they were doing in those days. One of the finest examples of Crusader architecture you'll ever see.' He turned to the Rev. Babcock. 'I know it of old, padre,' he added.

'Yes, Colonel.'

Babcock heaved a sigh of relief, and stuffed his notes in his pocket. He needn't refer to them for the moment anyway, and the Colonel, who had seemed below his usual form when they had met at breakfast, had now regained something of his old zest and confidence. The group followed their leader dutifully around the almost empty church. They had seen one already, the Franciscan Church of All Nations in the Garden of Gethsemane, and, although this second one was very different, the compulsion to silence was the same, the shuffling footsteps, the wandering eyes, the inability to distinguish one feature from another, the sensation of relief when the inspection was over and it was possible to go out once more into the bright sunlight.

'If you've seen one, you've seen the lot,' Jim Foster whispered to Jill Smith, but she avoided his eye and he turned away, shrugging his shoulders. Guilty conscience? Oh well, if that was to be the mood she must get on with it. She had sung a very different tune last night....

Lady Althea, adjusting a blue chiffon scarf around her head so that it fell loosely about her shoulders, observed her husband closely. He seemed to be himself again. She had been relieved to find him in bed and asleep when she had entered their bedroom the night before. Nor had she questioned him. Better to let things alone.... She had caught sight of friends driving away from the Church of All Nations, Lord and Lady Chaseborough, who were apparently staying at the King David Hotel, and they had agreed to meet by the Dome of the Rock at eleven o'clock. Such a surprise. If only she had known they were coming to Jerusalem she would have arranged to stay at the King David Hotel too. Never mind. At least she would get a glimpse of them, be able to exchange news of mutual friends.

'There's something going on at the far end of this courtyard,' said Robin. 'Look, Grandfather, quite a big queue. Shall we join them? It looks like some sort of excavation.'

'Pool of Bethesda,' replied the Colonel. 'They've done a lot of work there since my day. I doubt if there's much to see. Part of the city drain.'

But Robin was already running ahead to join the queue. His attention had been drawn to a screaming child, carried in the arms of her father, who was pushing his way to the head of the queue.

'What on earth are they doing with that child?' asked Kate Foster.

Babcock had been glancing at his notes again. 'The site of the old sheep market. You remember Chapter 5 of St John's Gospel, Mrs Foster, and the Pool of Bethesda, where the infirm waited to be healed, and how the angel came at certain times to trouble the water? Our Lord healed the man who had been lame for thirty-eight years.' He turned to the Colonel. 'I think we should just take a look at it.'

'Come along, then, follow me,' said the Colonel, 'but I warn you, it's only part of the old sewer system. We had trouble with it in '48.'

Miss Dean was still standing outside the church of St Anne. She felt confused by all the chatter and bustle. What did the Rev. Babcock mean by saying they would be walking several feet above where Our Lord had trodden? The church here was very beautiful, no doubt, but the Colonel said even this had been built on the foundations of an earlier one, which in its turn had been erected over the simple dwelling of St Joachim and St Anne. Was she to understand that the parents of Our Lady had lived underground? In that curious sort of grotto they had visited before coming out of the church? She had hoped to be inspired by it, but instead she was disenchanted. She had always had such a happy picture of St Joachim and St Anne living in a pleasant whitewashed house with flowers growing in a small garden, and their blessed daughter learning to sew by her mother's side. There had been a calendar once with just such a painting upon it; she had treasured it for years until Dora took it off the wall and threw it away.