Lamplight in the Shadows (24 page)

James wiped a hole in the misted windscreen and peered out into the cold February morning, conscious of the thud of his heart beating. In a narrow lane high above the outskirts of the town there was not a soul to be seen, though there was always the risk of an early morning dog-walker passing by. That would cause the local gossips to set to as they pondered why Dr Armstrong should be in such a strange location, he thought. Concentrating on a point a quarter of a mile away, he tried to focus through the grey, swirling Lincolnshire mist. He could just about make out the outlines of houses. Desperate not to miss the signal, he counted the streetlights again and tried to stare without blinking.

As he waited, he mused on the events of the past two months. He was still astonished at how it had all happened. In a matter of weeks, his entire world had turned upside down; his every sense of right and wrong, of morals and ethics, and of religious duty deftly swept aside by a tumult of emotions. Anguish, guilt, ecstasy and a profound sense of having just made the most important discovery of his life all mixed like some sort of mental potpourri, leaving him struggling to bring it to coherent order. He reached across to the radio, turned it on and turned up the volume as Mozart's
Clarinet Concerto in A
filled the silence of the car.

A quarter of a mile away, a young woman stood at the door of her recently built, detached house and watched the rear lights of her husband's car as it turned the bend and disappeared from sight. For a moment, she remained at the door savouring the sense of freedom. Around her was a building site, with all the promises of an attractive middle-class development on the rural edge of the town. However, apart from her house there was only one other, partially built. The house had once represented everything she thought she wanted. Now, it had come to represent everything she hated.

She shivered, uncertain whether her thoughts or the damp morning mist was the cause. The shivering returned her thoughts to the present.
How long had he been gone?
She glanced at her watch. He would be on the dual carriageway by now and therefore unlikely to make an unexpected return. Her eyes roamed across the field opposite her house, following the contours uphill until she reached the hedge on the far side, even now only faintly visible through the mist. Another tremor ran through her, but this time one of expectation, not revulsion. Somewhere up there, out of sight in the mist, was a sports car; her salvation. Reaching inside the front door, she switched on the outside porch light and stepped back inside the house.

For one moment, James thought that the mist was again playing tricks. Pressing his nose to the windscreen, his eyes narrowed as he tried to pierce through the half-light and counted the lampposts again. No, he had been right: there was now an extra light right where the shadowy outline of the house was; a house that had been the object of his intent gaze for the past half an hour; a light that signalled, like a beacon through the mist, the welcoming message that he was safe to approach. He turned the ignition and the engine throatily came to life with an eagerness matching that of its owner. Reversing from the field gateway, he gently eased into first gear and started the hill-descent back into town. Moments later, he had parked on the gravel of the new drive. Locking the car door, he strode purposefully towards the house, entered and switched off the now redundant external light. Anna's clear blue eyes met his with a gaze of warmth and seductiveness as, without a word, his lips eagerly found the welcoming softness of her own.

James turned off the dual-carriageway and into a small shopping complex on the outskirts of Kingston upon Hull. Sandwiched between a Pizza Hut and a branch of Comet electrical retailers was a UCI cinema. In front of the latter he spied a free parking space, into which he reversed Janice's Renault and switched off the engine. With barely a glance towards the passenger seat, he undid his seatbelt, removed the key from the ignition and tapped his wristwatch.

‘We need to hurry up a bit if we are not to miss the start.'

‘We wouldn't have been late in the first place if you hadn't insisted on checking the tyre pressures before we left.'

‘And if you didn't have the habit of scraping the kerbs with the wheels…'

‘Bastard.'

‘Don't blame me. You are the one who had the blowout, not me. If you didn't—'

‘I could have been killed.'

‘Agreed. But you weren't.' Subconsciously, he had edited out the word ‘unfortunately' before speaking. He was still slightly shocked at his own reaction to the news received upon his arrival at his in-laws' home on Christmas Eve. He could still vividly remember the faces of Janice and her mother when he arrived. The atmosphere had been as cold as the proverbial mortuary and a sense of enmity was visibly frissoning between mother and daughter before focusing with laser-like precision in his direction. Having just driven from Bishopsworth, he had instantly made the wild guess that the news of his festive infidelity had somehow flown to Shropshire ahead of him. It was only his mother-in-law's next words that dissuaded him of that notion.

‘She could have been killed.'

The fact that she had not been was self-evident, but it was a few moments before he managed to ascertain that the Renault had suffered a tyre blowout as Janice had been driving herself down the M1 on her way to Shropshire. She had been able to control the car and steer it onto the hard shoulder, where an RAC mechanic had subsequently rescued her.

‘It was going to happen sometime. If you didn't scrape the tyres so often…'

‘I could have been killed and you don't care.' With that, Janice had burst into tears and fled the kitchen, leaving him alone with his fuming mother-in-law. However, despite the difficulty of such an unexpected welcome, part of his brain was busy analysing whether he did care or not, whilst another part had distractedly started to calculate whether the tyre might have blown at the same time as he and Anna had been reaching a most rewarding climax back in Bishopsworth.
The stuff of voodoo
, he thought, trying to suppress an audacious grin in front of his mother-in-law.

Since that day back in December, Janice had refused to drive when he was with her. He in turn would always fastidiously check the tyres before driving her car, partially to antagonise her and partially because of his almost superstitious fear that she could be the cause of such an accident occurring again. It was against this background that the drive from Barminster to Hull was made in silence.

‘Come on, unless you are going to sit here for the rest of the afternoon.' James got out of the car, pushed the door shut and started towards the cinema. Hearing the passenger door close behind him, he flicked the button on his key fob as he walked, glancing back only to see the indicators on the car flash as the doors remotely locked. Not attempting to slow down for Janice to catch up with him, he entered the cinema foyer and strode to where an attendant sat distractedly picking her fingernails behind the ticket office counter.

‘Two adults for
Prince of Tides
, please.' He handed her some money and was rewarded with two tickets and a voucher for 50p off popcorn and ice cream.

‘Screen 3, second door on the left. It starts in two minutes.' The attendant went back to the excavation of her nails.

‘You could have waited for me.' Janice tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, snatched one of the tickets and stormed off in the direction of the auditorium.

Inside, the lights had already dimmed and the preview of forthcoming attractions was underway. He followed Janice up the red-carpeted staircase to a row near to the back and sat down next to her. She promptly got up and sat down again one seat removed, strategically placing her coat on the vacated seat between them. Her insolence was lost on him, as he was more than happy to sit through the film in isolation. Somehow, it rendered the power of the film all the more emotive and pertinent to his own emotional confusion. The plot's psychological angst, the dysfunctional persona, a life torn between two women – it all somehow served as a visual simile for his own life and the developing extra-marital relationship. He found himself relating to a lot of the emotions portrayed up there on the screen during the next couple of hours.

On the return journey home, he took the opportunity of Janice's continued silence to re-introduce the conversation of buying a house in Bishopsworth. He had started it before Christmas, one year from the date of being offered a partnership in the practice. She had shown what could only be described as a negative interest at that stage. However, undaunted, he had pursued the cause alone, trawling the area for suitable houses.

‘I think I may have found a house that would suit our needs. I thought you might like to take a detour to Bishopsworth and have a look at it?'

She met his opening gambit with the now commonplace silence.

‘I am sure the owners wouldn't mind. They are a very nice couple, both social workers. The house is detached and has four bedrooms. It was built in the seventies, so it needs a bit of work doing in order to modernise it a bit, but it has a great garden and is well situated on the outskirts of the town.'

He interpreted the continuing lack of response as an answer in the negative.

‘We've got to move sometime. I cannot continue commuting every day. It makes being on-call very difficult and I only have the lease on the flat for another six months.'

In response, Janice turned her head to gaze quietly out of the side window. He took a deep breath, sighing in the process, and dropped the subject. On approaching the roundabout north of the Humber Bridge he ignored the first exit for Bishopsworth, indicated right, part-circled the roundabout and started the drive northwards towards Barminster.

* * *

‘So who did you vote for?'

The question was punctuated by Anna running the index finger of her left hand down the centre of his chest, twirling the light covering of hair in the process. Her finger stopped when it reached his navel, where it gently pushed inwards as though pressing a ‘Go' button for him to speak.

It was Thursday afternoon and they were lying naked on a mattress on the floor of the living room of James' flat. To be precise, it was Thursday, 9
^th
April 1992, and the day of the General Election. The past few months had seen Thursday afternoons become a regular meeting time for Anna and James, with his flat becoming the venue of choice. The sparsely furnished, first-floor pied-à-terre had become their world within a world. It was far enough away from Barminster, whilst not quite belonging to the market town of Bishopsworth that bustled away below them.

‘Who did you vote for?'

‘I asked you first.' The words were punctuated by a sharp prod of the probing index finger. The digital equivalent of thumping a recalcitrant vending machine.

James mocked indignant surprise before replying. ‘It's a difficult choice. Is the country ready for a fourth Conservative government? Even more to the point, is the country ready for John Major as the Prime Minister?'

‘You're not answering my question!' The finger traced a line southwards, toyed momentarily with the next available tussle of hair and then continued its descent in a slow, light and tantalising arc. ‘Go on, tell me,' came the whispered plea.

‘Never mix politics with pleasure, is what I was once taught.' His right hand sought, found and proceeded to tease Anna's left nipple until it stood proud between his fingers. ‘I know what I will tell you though…' He leaned to his left, his lips playfully seeking hers.

‘What's that?' The words came more as a soft breath passing between them than an audible question, her eyes semi-focusing on the nearness of his own.

‘I've bought a house.'

‘What!' Her left hand squeezed in playful indignation, eliciting an equally indignant gasp from James. ‘You've bought a house without telling me first? How could you?'

‘I suppose I thought you wouldn't be interested.'

‘Of course I am interested. Where is it? What is it like? When can I see it?'

‘All in good time. I have only put an offer in at present. It may not be accepted.'

‘Does that mean you will be selling the house in Barminster?' The question held a hidden subsidiary question.

‘Probably. Well, yes, I would have to in due course. It wouldn't make sense to continue living in two towns so close to each other.'

‘What does Janice think? Has she seen it?'

‘No, she hasn't seen it and I am not too sure that she wants to. I don't really think she wants to leave Barminster.'

‘Can I see it first?' The voice was softer and pleading again.

‘Of course.' It was obviously the right answer, as Anna's left hand responded by relaxing, before commencing a more sensuous rhythmic movement.

‘Today.'

James was not sure whether it was a question or a statement. Either way, agreement seemed the only response likely to be accepted. ‘Now?'

‘In a while.' Her lips regained his, whilst her body pushed him backwards and mounted his in one flowing movement.

The telephone was ringing as James drew the MG onto the drive, tucking it up hard behind the Renault. The drive was only just long enough for the two cars, a situation not helped on this occasion by Janice's indifferent parking. He cursed inwardly; once for the lack of space and a second time in response to the sight of Janice sitting smoking on the doorstep.

Collecting his black bag from the boot, he heard the answer-machine click in and a man's voice responded to the request to leave a message.

‘I do wish you wouldn't smoke in the front like that. It is hardly becoming for a doctor's wife.'

His remonstrance met with no visual response. Nor was there any attempt to move as he squeezed past her into the house.

‘I don't suppose you took notice as to who was on the phone?'

He took the exhaled cloud of smoke as the only answer likely to be forthcoming and glanced towards the small table just inside the front door. A red flashing light drew attention to the recorded message. Tucking his bag behind the nearest armchair, he jabbed the play button and started to flick through an adjacent pile of mail as the automated voice began its reporting routine.

‘You have three new messages.' The Dalek-like voice was followed by a long bleep and then a highly refined human voice.

‘Good afternoon, Dr Armstrong. Elizabeth Winsonby-Folcroft here. Sorry that you were not able to join us in January. Sir Edward was so keen to invite you round to the Hall and I am equally looking forward to meeting both you and your wife. I regretted not being able to attend Mark Allerton's concert at St Lawrence's in December. I understand it was such a good show and, of course, we would now already be acquainted. Anyway, I digress. We are having a drinks party on Saturday week after the races and wondered whether you would be able to join us. There will be a few others you will know; I think you have already met Geraldine McPhearson and then there is… oh, never mind… you will meet them all then. My number is 016—'

Her voice was interrupted by another prolonged bleep as the answer-machine announced that she had exceeded her recording time and proceeded to the next message. James selected a long white envelope bearing the Hull City Hall postmark and slit it open. Meanwhile, Janice's only movement had been to light another cigarette.

‘Hello, Dr Armstrong? It's Jinny from Foster & Plumpton Estate Agents. I thought you would be pleased to know that your offer on Russet Lodge has been accepted. Call me back when you can.'

‘Excellent news!' James glanced towards Janice who, with her back to him, remained as impassive as ever. ‘Isn't it exciting? We might want to change the name though. What do you think?' Still no response. The answer-machine bleeped again and the third message started to play. James glanced at the contents of the envelope before swiftly tucking it into an inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Happy St George's Day, James.'

The man's voice was instantly recognisable as that of the Reverend Michael Ewing.

‘I thought I would just give you a gentle reminder about the meeting tonight at St Peter's. The Archdeacon has managed to persuade the Director of Ordinands to join us and we will have the extra benefit of the Warden from Norton Abbey. Hope to see you at 7.30. Bye for now.'

The answer-machine clicked off and the red light stopped flashing.

‘Michael must have known I would forget about that meeting. It is just as well he rang. I just have time to change. Don't worry about dinner; I'll get something on my way home later.'

In response, Janice picked up her lighter and packet of cigarettes from the doorstep, stood and entered the house, brushing past him without a word. Depositing herself in an armchair, she picked up a copy of
Hello
and, with an air of indifference, started to turn the pages. He resisted the urge to give voice to his rising sense of frustration, closed the door and went upstairs to change. Only the white of his knuckles as he gripped the stair rail gave any outward clue to his inward turmoil.

* * *

There is something about old churches that imbues them all with the same atmosphere when entered in the evenings, especially if no service is taking place. He was never sure whether it was the dimly lit nave, the shadowy roof spaces and darkened windows with their stained glass figures mere shadows of their daytime counterparts, the vague lingering aroma of incense and candles or the slightly chilled air. Whatever the cause, it was an ambience that always served to put him at ease the moment he entered such a building, regardless of whether he was familiar with it or not. The parish church of St Peter's was no different and he felt his earlier matrimonial tension lift the instant he closed the solid oak door to the southwest entrance. The sound of the heavy iron latch falling into place echoed in the emptiness of the nave. He paused and listened.

At the far end, towards the north transept, a yellowish light escaped from a small staircase set into the floor. The same aperture allowed the murmur of men's voices to escape upwards into the body of the church. He started down the central aisle, pausing only to genuflect to the altar. As he drew near to the pulpit, a head appeared from the staircase, looking somewhat bizarre speaking at floor level and reminding him of Caravaggio's painting of the head of John the Baptist presented on a platter to Herod.

‘Ah, James. You got my message. Good. I am glad you could make it. We are down here in the crypt. Do come down and I'll introduce you to everyone.'

The disembodied head of Michael Ewing disappeared again and James followed it down the spiral staircase into the 13
^th
-century crypt.

It was not the first time he had set foot in this historic crypt. However, even he was impressed by the contours of the rib-vaulted ceiling, as the stone architecture was highlighted in the soft glow of the strategically placed up-lighters that Michael had installed a few months earlier. Down the centre of the room was a long refectory-style oak table, which often served as a conference table at times such as visits from diocesan officers or the Bishop of Hull. On this occasion, a small buffet had been laid out upon it, along with a few cartons of orange juice, a couple of bottles of sparkling mineral water and half a dozen bottles of wine. Only the wine showed any sign of having been opened. Casting his eye around the room, he ascertained that there were about twenty people present, all men and most in jackets and ties. Only six clerical collars were instantly identifiable, of which the owners of only two were recognisable to him.

‘James, you know the Archdeacon of course.' Michael gestured with his hand towards the nearby figure of the Archdeacon of the East Riding, who broke off his conversation with two men unfamiliar to James and welcomed him with a handshake and a genial smile.

‘Good evening, Your Grace.'

‘Good evening, James. I am very pleased to see you here. We must find a moment to catch up later.'

Before he could answer, he felt Michael's firm hand on his elbow and was escorted further into the crypt.

‘Now, let me introduce you to the Director of Ordinands.'

He was led towards a rather stout and slightly red-faced priest with a shock of almost shoulder-length white hair and a closely trimmed black beard, who was deep in conversation with a much taller and thinner priest of considerably younger years. The latter wore a full-length, black Victorian-style clerical frock coat that, along with his own shoulder-length black hair, gave him the air of being not quite of this world.

‘This, James, is the Reverend Dr George Morgan, Director of Ordinands for the Diocese of York and Canon Prebendary at York Minster. A man you will come to know very well in due course and indeed he you, for it is this man upon whose shoulders ultimately sits the spiritual weight of guiding all the new ordinands within the Archbishop of York's jurisdiction.'

‘James, delighted to meet you.' The reverend doctor's face took on a rather jocular appearance and a somewhat heightened colouration as he effusively shook James' hand. ‘We must have a chat about how things are progressing with you. Michael did say where you are studying, but my memory fails me, I am afraid. Is it Mirfield or Cranmer Hall?'

‘Actually, I didn't, George,' Michael interjected before James could respond. ‘All in good time. He has been following his calling for the past couple of years, but has yet to apply for a placement at a theological college. I have invited him here this evening to help him focus his mind on how he might wish to proceed. I thought you would be able to assist him in your own inimitable style.'

‘It will be my great pleasure. Hopefully, my talk this evening will give you a few pointers, but perhaps we should meet privately and discuss this at greater length?'

As he spoke, James found his eye wandering to the various stains marking the black clerical shirtfront of his interlocutor, stains actively added to by the effusive use of his arms as he punctuated his speech with total disregard for the contents of the glass of wine held in one hand.

‘Here is my card. Ring me on my home number and we will book a suitable date.'

He plucked a beige business card from his jacket pocket and wrote a number on the back before passing it across.

‘Thank you, I will—'

Before he could finish his sentence, Michael again deflected his attention.

‘One more introduction, if I may, and then we will get the main event underway.'

He turned him to face the taller priest in the Victorian coat, who had earlier taken a couple of steps backwards in order to avoid being sprinkled with wine.

‘The Reverend Luke Palfreyman, Warden of Norton Abbey. Luke… Dr James Armstrong.'

‘Thank you, Michael, though I think Dr Armstrong deserves a drink.'

The Warden of Norton Abbey forsook the customary shaking of hands as a greeting, placed an arm around James' shoulders and guided him away towards the table. He picked up one of the wine bottles and peered carefully at the label.

‘A claret from a little-known château, but knowing Michael its quality will surpass its lineage. You'll partake, I assume?'

He barely glanced to see whether he had assent before pouring two large glasses and passing one of them across.

‘You were beginning to look a little fazed by the combined enthusiasm of Michael and George. Take no notice, they mean well. But tell me, James – I may call you James?' He did not wait for the nodded assent. ‘Tell me – two years? That seems a fair while to be “following your calling” as Michael put it; at least without, or so it would seem, not actually going anywhere.'

He eyed James pensively over the rim of his glass as he took a prolonged draught of the wine, glanced around before leaning closer and lowered his voice.

‘Do I detect a barrier of some sort? A psychological impediment, perhaps?'

‘Well, I… eh… I am not sure quite how…' He took a mouthful of the wine, as much for Dutch courage as the need for refreshment, and started again. ‘I'm sorry; you took me quite by surprise. Is it that obvious? My ambivalence, I mean. If that is what it really is; I haven't really thought about it in such terms.' He took another sip of wine before continuing. ‘It's a little difficult to talk about here.'

‘Take no notice of those around you here. Novices all, and possibly only one or two with any significant intent of pursuing the priesthood. Not that they realise that at present, but they will in good time. However, I do not mean to pry and I certainly do not want to embarrass you. Perhaps now is indeed not a good moment to talk. Nonetheless, I can recognise when a man's mind is in turmoil and I sense a deep unrest in you. Might I suggest that you ring me before contacting George Morgan?'

James was passed another business card.

‘A spell at Norton Abbey might be just what you need to clear your mind.'

He topped up James' glass, ignoring the raised hand of self-denial, and proceeded to do the same for his own.

‘You'll need it as sustenance to get through his lecture. Oh, and by the way, if you do meet with him alone, be aware that he is a “Friend of Dorothy”, if you follow my meaning – and if you don't, then look it up.'

He winked and then turned to speak to a couple of young men who were standing quietly on their own at the periphery of the room. James watched his retreating back, perplexed by the reference to Dorothy, whoever she happened to be. However, before he could ponder the issue any more, there was a knocking noise as Michael tapped a spoon on the refectory table in an effort to gain everyone's attention.

‘Gentlemen. As we are all here, I think we had better make a start. If you would be so kind to take a seat and I will call upon the Reverend Dr George Morgan to enlighten us as to the Archbishop of York's plans for the training of priests up here in what he would like to think of as the true premier province of England.'

Polite laughter scattered through the crypt at Michael's somewhat heretical dig at the accepted primacy of the seat of Canterbury within the Church of England, followed by a general scraping of chairs as the guests settled themselves in anticipation of their speaker. Only George Morgan remained standing, a freshly charged glass arcing through the air in front of him with every new sentence.

‘Archdeacon, Michael, welcomed guests all. It gives me enormous pleasure to be amongst you this evening, especially in such a remarkable place as this. When I knew that Michael was planning this evening's event, I spoke with the Archbishop and…'

* * *

A few hours later, James arrived home to discover that Janice had already retired to bed. He switched on a standard lamp, poured himself a generous helping of Laphroaig's Quarter Cask and plucked a copy of the
Oxford Dictionary of English
from the bookshelf before settling into an armchair. Savouring the rich, peaty aroma of the whisky, he took a sip, allowed the fiery liquid to pleasure his taste buds for a few moments and then swallowed, enjoying even more the trail of warmth it left on its passage downwards through the centre of his chest.