Such Visitors (18 page)

‘There,' said Mrs Judson, ‘see that? What did I tell you? I'm not the only one who thinks your secrecy is peculiar. It agrees with me in the paper.'

That afternoon, walking up through the High Street to the battlements again (she had not so far returned to the towpath) Helen was smiled at by several strangers. In two shops she was congratulated on her courage, and at a pedestrian crossing a child who said he was Sam's friend shook her by the hand. She arrived home trembling to find four admiring letters from people she did not know, and for several days her walks were interrupted by nods and smiles and words of praise. Haunted by such recognition, Helen decided it was time to return to the towpath. At least, there, she would be alone.

But down by the canal her hopes of a peaceful walk were ended by the presence of a distant figure walking towards her. Helen could see, as he bounced under the bridge, hands in pockets, it was the Reverend Arnold Ludgate, vicar of the parish, a man who in the past had made many a visit to the Judsons to urge them to seek the light of his church, but who had eventually been forced to realise they would never become part of his flock. Spot barked eagerly, alerting the vicar. He looked up, recognising Helen at once, and waved cheerily. It was too late for Helen to turn in the opposite direction. She set her face into an expression of intense preoccupation, hoping it would discourage the vicar from too long a conversation. They approached each other in very different spirits.

A yard or so from the exact spot where the rescue had taken
place they met, and stopped. The Reverend Arnold Ludgate was a man of considerable bounce: his enthusiasm, the balls of his feet and his Adam's apple all bounced in constant unison. Now, at rest physically, an almost visible bounce of spirit danced within him. He smiled his very distinct smile: God had chosen teeth for the vicar that should be his particular cross, and the vicar bore them well, smiling more in a single day than most people manage in a week.

‘Ah! Miss Judson.' Smile, smile. Helen noticed his sandy hair was turning grey. ‘It must be the good Lord's will we should meet like this. It was my intention to call upon you this evening and offer my humble congratulations. That was a most brave and courageous act you committed, and we in the parish are proud – '

‘Thank you,' said Helen. ‘But it was nothing. It's been exaggerated out of all proportion.'

‘Just hereabouts, was it?' The vicar bounced his small hand in the general direction of the canal.

‘Just about here,' Helen agreed. Scanning the offending patch of water, the Reverend Arnold remained for a few moments in silent contemplation.

‘Very tricky place,' he said at last. Thank God you were here. He certainly moves in mysterious ways.'

‘Yes,' said Helen.

‘His wonders to perform,' added the vicar.

They stood looking at each other, the wind blowing their rather similiar auburn and grey hair. Helen hoped God might now perform the wonder of releasing her from this unwanted encounter: but He did not oblige.

‘As a matter of fact, Miss Judson, I had it in mind to make you a little suggestion. There's to be a most interesting talk at the vicarage on Tuesday the fifth: one of our missionaries back from India. I was wondering if you would care to come along? I think I can guarantee quite a little gathering.' The vicar was all smiles again. He looked at Helen with such suffering expectancy of an acceptance that she judged it easier to agree than to go through the dreary mechanics of being persuaded.

Since her old schoolfriend Jenny had died of cancer five years ago she had not been out for an evening: such invitations that came her way she had refused with such constancy that
they were now rare. And anyhow, the fuss of arranging a companion for her mother was too much to contemplate. The idea of a talk at the vicarage was the last thing to tempt her to break her pattern: but the fact was the canal episode had shifted normality in a most disagreeable fashion, leaving her ungrounded, shaken, curiously lost. It was for this reason, perhaps, her normal, strong resolve to decline all invitations was weakened. Unwillingly, she accepted.

‘Good, good,
good,'
trilled the vicar, bouncing a little on the path. ‘I shall take the liberty of dropping by with some reading matter about the whole subject before then: and in the meantime I shall look forward with immense pleasure, quite immense pleasure, to your joining us.'

Helen nodded briefly, looking at her watch with undisguised impatience. The idea of anyone anticipating pleasure in her company was a responsibility she did not care for, but she knew she stood a poor chance of quelling his enthusiasm.

‘I must be off,' she said, grateful for the first time in her life to Spot's impatient barking. ‘The dog needs his run.'

The Reverend Arnold arrived with his first lot of reading matter that evening, much to the delight of Mrs Judson who, although not a woman of religious inclination herself, regarded any vicar as a high-class visitor. Small glasses of clouded sherry were produced, and the pattern of a normal evening shattered.

Perhaps the vicar judged his welcome at the Judsons to be a warm one, for he ventured to repeat the visit, armed with more missionary reading matter, some days later. He then took the liberty of dropping round most evenings, with some impeccable excuse, and the bottle of sherry, untouched for years, was soon finished.

On the occasions of his visitations Helen sat quietly listening to the conversation between her mother and the Reverend Arnold, resenting every moment of the old, lost tranquillity. The intrusion of this visitor continued to play havoc with the room as she knew it: the horrible magic of change unnerved her very soul.

It had quite the opposite effect upon Mrs Judson to whom, in her mind's eye, the vicar was already a son-in-law. She
refrained from putting this idea to Helen in too crude a fashion, but could not contain a small hint of the ambitions in her heart.

‘If
Arnold's courting, Helen, and I don't say he is, then we ought to get in some more Assorted Creams.'

She was curiously enthusiastic at the thought of Helen's night out at the vicarage, even volunteering to spend the evening on her own, provided Helen was in by eleven. This was a promise Helen was able to make with great ease. She left her mother, settled in rugs for an evening of television, with a lack of enthusiasm that seemed to slow her limbs, making the walk to the vicarage a long one.

The Reverend Arnold was an eager host, and had obviously taken great trouble with preparations for the evening. Twelve assorted chairs were placed in rows in his large, cold sitting-room – into which a collection of feeble electric fires had been scattered: there was sherry, tea and assorted cream biscuits on a table (‘inspired by my visits to the Judsons,' he whispered to Helen) and the screen for the slides was set up at the end of the room. After a long wait scarcely filled with small, awkward talk, it seemed that only five others besides Helen had decided to give up their evening to the missionary's talk. The spare chairs were left, however, to give the illusion of a larger audience, and in the darkened room, punching away at the slides, the gallant missionary disguised any disappointment he may have felt at the lack of audience, booming his message across as if addressing a packed Albert Hall.

The lecture over, the pale lamps lit again, the vicar's guests now at least had something positive to talk about over their biscuits and tea. But the discussion petered out quickly as a chill wind rattled through the windows, making the thin curtains shudder, and the small patches of warmth from the fires evaporated in the cold air. They made their excuses, the guests, and left. Even the missionary had to be on his way. Helen's inclination was to leave with the others, but something in the vicar's face, behind his bouncing smile, touched her conscience. So when he suggested she might like a nightcap in his study before the journey home, she agreed.

The study, it was true, was warm: a small brown room, bookshelves to the ceiling, a disorganised desk, two armchairs whose life seemed almost spent.

‘Only real warm spot in the house,' said the vicar. ‘I more or less live in this room.' He poured two minute glasses of thick dark sherry, gave one to Helen, and took the chair opposite her. ‘Trouble is, this is a vast house, falling to pieces, and much too big for one man. They're considering pulling it down and building a nice modern box instead, but I don't know when that will be. So meantime I rattle around.' He smiled, uncomplainingly. ‘Would that I had a relation to accommodate in one wing – it could be very nice with a lick of paint and a few gas fires. But sadly my dear mother departed from this world in 1947, so there's no one …'

‘No,' said Helen.

They listened to the wind.

Helen sipped the horrible sweet sherry. She did not want to be sitting here in the vicar's study wearing her polite face. Were she at home she would be in the silent privacy of her own room by now, shawl about her shoulders,
Persuasion
in her hand, the clamps of dull routine an inestimable pleasure. Until the time came that her mother died, and dreaded freedom was thrust upon her, she wanted no change.

The Reverend Arnold had dragged a duster from the skirts of his armchair and was polishing the toe of an already shining shoe with some fervour. His head cast down, Helen was unable to observe his expression as he spoke.

‘My dear Miss Judson – may I take the liberty of saying this? I hope I have not alarmed you by my attentions since your great act of heroism. But perhaps it will come as no great surprise to you when I admit it was not
merely
to deliver papers pertaining to our missionary's work that I called upon you quite so frequently …'

Rub, rub, rub at the shoe. ‘I have grown to feel we are kindred spirits, you and me. Lonely souls, despite the love of our Father.' He ceased polishing at last, returned the duster to its hiding place, and with great effort met Helen's eye. ‘You understand? This huge house, ridiculous for one: the Granny wing – dear
Mrs
Judson, I could not but help thinking …'He blushed, fervent, but without bounce. ‘I mean, there is work to be done, children to be raised, partners to be chosen. I cannot help thinking that God in his mercy has guided me …'

Helen stood up, face impassive. The vicar leapt up too, wringing his small hands.

‘Forgive me, dear Helen, if I've intruded into areas – '

‘I must go,' said Helen. ‘I promised Mother I'd be home by eleven.'

The vicar followed her through cold dark passages to the front door.

‘Perhaps, at least, you would not reject my suggestion as totally out of hand.' Helen pulled on her gloves. The vicar winced at her small, impatient frown. ‘Perhaps you would think it over? I don't want to rush anything: you must forgive me if I've been too hasty – I'm not a man practised at courting.' He managed the faintest smile. ‘But unless you give me firm orders not to, I shall take the opportunity of visiting you further, see how things go from there …'

Helen looked at him. He shivered in the doorway, Adam's apple bouncing up and down on the dog's collar in silent fear.

‘Mr Ludgate,' she said, voice so tight she feared he might hear the cracks, ‘thank you for a very pleasant evening. If you'd like to drop round, sometimes, I'm sure my mother and I would be very pleased to see you. But please, I ask you this: don't speak to me again of such things as you have mentioned tonight. You may find it hard to understand, but it's not in my nature to want change. My mother and I are happy as we are.'

‘I shall be there,' said the vicar, hope rising like mercury through his body and causing him a familiar bounce of joyous expectation, ‘and we shall see what the Good Lord has in store for us.'

They shook hands. Helen, scarf pulled tight round her neck, set off on the walk home, down by the canal where a full moon floated on the still, black water, where the huge trees crackled in the wind. Above the roofs of the town the dark sky was pink as a sore, its edges puffed with cloud. Ruined evenings, blasted life, bitter cold: Helen walked fast, not thinking.