Lamplight in the Shadows (13 page)

‘You don't, do you?' The question was for James, who was now halfway back to the garden. He paused, turned and met her gaze.

‘I, eh…'

‘Hello, Mum.' Janice did not wait for his reply. The hesitation told her enough. ‘No, you are not interrupting anything important. James and I were just playing charades. He is not very good at it. He thinks he can win, but he won't. He just doesn't realise it yet.'

Discomfited, James turned away and walked into the garden. Above him, the swifts continued their acrobatic display, their effortless agility leaving him with an even greater sense of inadequacy.

* * *

The summer of 1991 continued. A personal cold war privately played out on the backdrop of a public demonstration of domestic harmony. The subject of their personal feelings for each other was not raised again. Both now knew how the other felt and that was where it was left. A case of stalemate in the great chess game of their marital life. In fact, that brief evening's discussion, if indeed it could be called as much, led to a new level of understanding in which neither party was inclined to alter the status quo. It was though the tension of the unknown had been released, allowing them to get on with the mundane process of daily living. What little interaction there was occurred in a polite, albeit reserved manner, rather like two hotel guests under the same roof. Although it was not stated, they both suspected that their relationship was becoming a marriage of convenience, with neither one of them being motivated to change.

‘It has been almost two years since we first met. What are your true feelings at present, James?'

‘I am not very sure anymore. I feel so unsettled; so unfocused. I used to be so certain of everything. I knew what I stood for and where I was. I was so clear about where I was heading. Now everything is just a muddle. My whole life seems to have inexplicably become one big confusion. It is as though my head can no longer think straight. I just feel, well, bewildered, I guess.'

Outside, distant thunder rolled around the grey-laden skies. After a few weeks of late summer sunshine, with temperatures hovering around 26
^°
C, the weather had finally broken. James watched as the heavy rain pounded the last remnants of flowers in the herbaceous border, his view semi-obscured by the curtain of water running down the glass of the doors leading into the garden.

Inside, the table lamps were turned on; a necessary act even though it was only early afternoon. The soft light against the backdrop of the storm gave the study a warm, cosy feeling.

‘How did you spend the summer?'

The Archdeacon leant forward to re-light his pipe as he spoke, his words punctuated by small puffs of aromatic smoke as the tobacco started to burn. James watched him for a moment before replying.

‘Mostly at the surgery, although I did take a few odd days of leave here and there as well as one week towards the end of August.'

‘What did you do with the time?'

‘I went to the Driffield Agricultural Show in July and spent time visiting York and Lincoln in August. It was good to have some time to quietly sit and reflect; to simply absorb the detail of the Minster and Cathedral at leisure.'

‘The Driffield Show? It is some years since I went there. Are you from a farming background, James?'

‘No. However, I lived in a small village and, as a child, used to stay on farms during the summer holidays. I love the atmosphere of the agricultural shows. I suppose that, in a romantic way, they echo a lifestyle I envy: honest but satisfying toil within a rural setting.'

The Archdeacon chuckled. ‘I understand what you mean, although I am not so sure that many of the farmers would agree with your analysis these days. The reality for many is less romantic than it sounds.'

James smiled ruefully. Before he could reply, a bright flash of lightning forked across the garden, followed by a deafening crash of thunder that broke almost above the house. The rain doubled in intensity; pounding the windows, forming large puddles on the lawn and rebounding off the stone-flagged path.

The door to the study swung open with none of the usual courtesy of the Archdeacon's housekeeper and in bounded a small chocolate Labrador. Whimpering, it tried to push its head into the space behind the Archdeacon's feet and the bottom of his armchair. He leant down and stroked the dog's head, offering soothing words as he did so.

‘An addition to the family?' asked James, remembering the old golden Labrador he had seen on his previous visit.

‘No, unfortunately, a replacement. Theo died of old age about eight months ago. This is Thea, who is not quite two years old and has far more energy than I can cope with, haven't you, girl?' He gave the dog's head a brisk rub and she responded by thumping her tail hard on the rug. The storm for her was now nothing more than a mere distraction.

‘Theo, from the Greek
Theos,
meaning God. I did not realise there was a female equivalent in Thea.' James grinned and looked quizzically at the cleric in front of him. ‘Isn't that a slightly pagan act for an Archdeacon?'

‘The answer to your initial statement is that you clearly need to brush up on your Greek. In response to the question, the answer is “yes”. We are all human. Each one of us has a bit of the devil in us. Otherwise, we would not need God's forgiveness for our sins. For my part, I simply cannot resist goading our dear bishop. He rises to my provocations so quickly that it gives me hours of amusement at his expense. Very un-Christian, I am sure, but quite harmless, I assure you!'

‘I thought for one moment you were going to tell me that you are a follower of the fashion to invoke the concept of the Sacred Feminine.'

‘Oh no, James.' He chuckled, his pipe giving little rhythmic puffs of smoke in emphasis. ‘I haven't strayed that far from Church of England doctrine. Having a joke with the naming of my Labradors is about as far as my revolutionary zeal goes. I leave debates such as the one you are commenting upon for those reactionaries who get excited by the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls.'

Before James could reply, there came a tapping on the door and the Archdeacon's housekeeper entered bearing a tray of tea.

‘Mrs Jennings, you are a dear. Thank you
so
very
much. Just there will do nicely.' He removed a copy of the
Church Times
from a small side table, enabling Mrs Jennings to set the tray down.

‘The tea is Earl Grey. I've left you some milk as well as lemon, as I wasn't sure how Dr Armstrong prefers it.' She gave a timid smile in the direction of James before continuing. ‘There are also a few shortbread biscuits. I made them myself, so I hope you find them to your liking.'

‘I am sure that both James and I feel quite spoilt, Mrs Jennings. You look after us very well.'

‘Thank you, Your Grace. If that will be all, I have some shopping to do once the rain subsides.'

‘Think nothing of it, Mrs Jennings. I am sure we will survive for a short while in your absence.'

Mrs Jennings stopped nervously rubbing her hands together, gave a small bow and retreated from the study. The two men's eyes met and both smiled simultaneously.

‘You appear to be very well looked after.'

‘Mrs Jennings is an absolute dear. She has been a stalwart member of the Church for more years than I can remember. She lost her husband about six years ago and found it difficult to survive on a widow's pension. So, when I asked her whether she would possibly know of anyone who would be interested in being my housekeeper, with a couple of rooms rent free, she positively jumped at the chance.' He poured two cups of tea as he spoke. ‘Milk or lemon?'

‘Lemon, please.'

‘She is a stickler for formality, though,' the Archdeacon continued, passing James a cup in the process. ‘I once suggested that she could call me by my Christian name if she so wished.'

‘What did she say?'

‘She wouldn't hear a word of it. Became quite embarrassed, almost shocked, I would say. She told me that it would not seem proper and that she did not intend to allow others to start whispering about our relationship. All very considerate of her, of course. Hence, I return the favour by sticking to “Mrs Jennings” as a form of address in her respect.'

‘The arrangement seems to work well for you both.'

‘It does indeed, James. If it wasn't for Mrs Jennings and Thea, then it could be a very lonely existence here on my own.' Hearing mention of her name induced Thea to flick her tail a few times as a lazy response. ‘Loneliness can be a dreadful thing. It slowly eats into the soul and can quite destroy a man if left unchecked.' He took a sip of tea, glancing towards James as he did so. ‘Do you ever get lonely, James?'

The question took James by surprise and he took a moment before replying.

‘I'm not really sure. I have never really thought about it. I suppose that I have so often been alone throughout many years of studying that I have become used to my own company. Why do you ask?'

‘Because you implied that the activities you undertook during your days off in the summer were undertaken alone.'

‘Did I?' James thought back to what he had said earlier. ‘I hadn't intended to make it sound like that.'

‘But it is the truth of the matter, is it not?'

‘Well, yes, it is. I have called it my summer of discontent.' James grinned sheepishly. ‘How did you know?'

‘You spoke only in the first person. Additionally, I would suggest that it is hard for anyone to “quietly sit and reflect”, as I think you put it, unless you are without the distraction of the presence of another person.'

‘That is very perceptive of you.'

‘It is part of the job of dealing with other human beings, James. People rarely come straight out with what they are really feeling. Sometimes they feel embarrassed. Quite often it is simply a fact that they do not understand the true nature of their emotions.'

‘And you think that I am lonely and do not realise it?'

‘What
I
think is not as important as what
you
think and feel.'

‘Janice didn't want to take any leave during the summer. She preferred to save it in order to be at home with her family at Christmas.'

‘And you?'

‘I needed to use some holiday and cannot take it at Christmas.'

‘So you did your own thing, in a manner of speaking.'

‘For the reasons I have said.'

‘Do you think Janice is lonely?'

‘She has never said as much. She seems to have plenty of friends from her workplace and goes out with them fairly often.'

‘So, do you have your own set of friends or do you have some who could be termed as joint friends?'

James looked thoughtfully at the Archdeacon, who in turn remained impassively patient as he waited for the answer he felt was coming.

‘No. That is, we do not have any joint friends and I have never really felt the need for personal ones.'

‘I guessed as much. You know, we are all sometimes in need of a friend. Even the most solitary and independent of us needs at least one person to turn to from time to time. For some, their spouse is that person. However, and forgive me if I am treading on sensitive ground or have the wrong perception, I suspect that your wife does not occupy that role.'

His gaze now down-turned, James slowly shook his head, his mind chasing one thought after another. Why was his own thinking so muddled and yet someone who hardly knew him, or Janice, come to that, could see the situation so clearly; could even read his relationship as the sham that it was? He lifted his head and returned the gaze of the Archdeacon.

‘No, you are right, she doesn't.'

‘Let me ask you something else, if I may?'

James nodded in reply.

‘How would you summarise your aims in life? What are your goals?'

‘That is a much easier question to answer. I would say that I wish to be successful within my medical practice and to start studying in earnest for ordination.'

‘Admirable aims in both respects, James. There is a great deal to gain by a life of service to others. However, are there no personal desires?'

‘If you mean do I intend to buy a large house or an expensive car or have other materialistic aims, then at present the answer is that such matters do not constitute primary goals in my life. I subscribe to the concept that there is no wealth but life.'

‘As originally stated by John Ruskin, I believe.'

‘Yes. I have read much of his work. He had a marvellous mind and was a great writer.'

‘So you will be familiar with Ruskin's definition of life, which includes the powers of joy and love?'

‘Indeed. He speaks of such in his essay
Unto this Last
.'

‘You will also recognise, therefore, his concept that before a man can nourish the life of another, he needs to have “perfected the functions of his own life to the utmost”, if I correctly remember the quotation.'

‘You seem to be implying that my life is incomplete?'

‘I am not the ultimate judge of that, James. Only you can be such. However, if permitted, I would ask you one final question.' He took his guest's silence as acquiescence. ‘Where in your own life is joy and love to be found?'

Outside, the storm continued, sending great rivulets of water down the windows. James' eyes found a soft focus somewhere in the middle of the cascade.
It is
, he thought,
as though the whole world is joining in with this overwhelming sense of sadness
. The sadness held deep within, which this kindly cleric had so astutely uncovered and revealed for what it was. He sat in silence, not knowing how to respond. As though attempting to fill the void, his mind spontaneously conjured up images, like a rapid slideshow of the past: reflections of events during his childhood, of his time at Grammar School, at university, of his life since his marriage. All were episodes that had left a lasting impression because of their emotional intensity. The difference between them all was that the earlier ones were, almost without exception, happy events, whereas the most recent were anything but.

‘The poet and philosopher Rabindranath Tagore wrote a book titled
The Prophet
. In it, he speaks of the sentiment of joy, describing it as “then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea”. However, it is my guess that your soul has had its wings firmly clipped and that the gates of your own heart have been firmly shut for a considerable time.'

James blinked as the voice of the Archdeacon brought his thoughts back to the present. It was only then, and with some astonishment, that he realised that his cheeks were wet and that he was crying.