26

Sally arrived precisely on time for her Sunday morning appointment with Ewan, but when he opened the door she was shocked to see him rubbing his wet hair vigorously with a towel and wearing a pull-on jogging suit. As he held his arm above his head his navel was briefly exposed, revealing dark, crunchy body hair that certainly wasn’t present on Crucifix Man.

‘Sally, please forgive me. I had a bad night and seriously overslept. I do apologise, but I hope you’re well rested.’

‘Unfortunately not, Ewan. I didn’t sleep well either.’

‘Then I’d better get some strong coffee on the go.’

Sally’s night had been one of tossing and turning in the alien single bed; her head filled with the mental fallout of her sudden life change. She’d finally slipped into a light sleep around dawn and come-to a couple of hours later with a thick head and a parched mouth. As predicted she immediately longed for her usual morning routine. Being woken early by the bouncing presence of Finnegan, throwing on her leggings and fleece, grabbing his lead and ball and heading out into the fresh country air towards the common. But this morning, even if she’d wanted a bracing walk in the Abbey grounds, it was more important to shower and attend to her new beauty routine. For some reason it was imperative to appear attractive to the strange, enigmatic priest.

Now sitting again in the roomy Edwardian chair, and in the same position as the night before, things were very changed. It had always been a mystery to her how the clock, and the weather, affected ambience. Last night she’d been interviewed by a professional priest, in a style which purported to be friendly and informal, but was in fact a controlled and challenging probe. The interview could have soured, but the warmth of the log fire and the diffused lamplight had seduced her into compliance. This morning there was a harder atmosphere. Sharp sunshine pierced the room, illuminating a shaft of dancing dust, and the log fire, although lit, was at the cold, smoky stage.

She watched him leave the room, dreamily confused with mixed messages of reverence and fascination. Last night his contours had been hidden beneath the stiff confines of leather, but now the soft jogging suit accentuated the loose, swivelling flow of his movements. He seemed to hold himself in two halves; his upper body held regally erect, while his hips and legs moved with the skilful manoeuvres of a salsa dancer.

Ewan returned carrying a tray, his long, mussed hair now drawn severely back in a band. ‘I’m really sorry for the chaos. I only have myself to manage and sometimes I can’t even do that.’ He placed the tray on a low table and sat down in his rocker. ‘Sally, can you just excuse me for a brief moment while I settle myself into order?’ In the same way as he’d withdrawn last night he removed his glasses and stared straight ahead. It was a perfect opportunity for her to re-examine him in the bright light of morning. He looked as if he really had passed a very troubled night. His eyes were puffed, his complexion pale and the shaven areas around his neat beard were heavily shadowed with a night’s growth. Despite the ravages of his insomnia she found him rather beautiful and the voice of her subconscious began to whisper in her ear.

‘You fancy him, don’t you?’ it said, ‘but don’t think you’re the only one with a void to fill. There’s not a woman through the doors in this place, no matter how old or bereft they are, who hasn’t given that icon a hot thought. Let’s face it, he’s got everything going for him. He’s famous, successful, sensitive and clever, and that poor broken lip doesn’t half bring out the mother instinct. The safety valve for all these other sad admirers is that he’s a pipe-dream; an unavailable celibate priest, so they can fantasise to their hearts content. But you’re different. You kid yourself you’ve come here to re-invent yourself, but have you really? Isn’t all this “pastures new” stuff an excuse for trying to find new love? So be careful you don’t make a complete fool of yourself.’

Ewan exhaled, served the coffee and lit an inevitable cigarette. ‘Sally, I won’t slip into formal counselling mode, as you’ll soon recognise the format, but can I encourage you to try and establish your true feelings for Roger? Once you’ve done that you must confront them and work out a way of dealing with them.’

‘My feelings for Roger fluctuate,’ she said. ‘One minute I’m wallowing in nostalgia and affection, and the next, gripped with fury. On Friday night, when I got home and found he’d already left me, I was so bitter I made a huge bonfire of all his clothes. I burnt the lot. Revenge, I suppose. Now I’m really sorry and ashamed.’

‘Would you like to tell me how you met Roger and a bit about your early life together?’

‘We met when I was twenty-one. I was a student nurse in my final year and Roger was on the bottom rungs of Sandridge Fuller, his family’s publishing firm. I was working on intensive care and his father had had a massive stroke. He was unconscious for three weeks before he died, so I saw a lot of Roger and his mother. For me, it was love at first sight, and he said it was for him as well. I had no reason to suspect his feelings for me weren’t genuine, because I think they were. We married eighteen months later and his mother gave him The Dower House and her shares in Sandridge Fuller as a wedding present. She moved into a cottage in the village and died five years ago. She was a great friend, and I still miss her.’

‘So in financial terms you and Roger have always been very well set up?’

‘Yes, but there were lots of financial problems with the firm and it was finally taken over in a merger ten years ago. Roger’s a director but he has very little influence. He does stuff that he’s quite good at, mainly hospitality and publicity, but he’s built up good contacts over the years and he’s very well liked. “It’ll see me out,” he says.’

Ewan leaned back and nodded. ‘It must have been just before the merger when I was looking for a publisher for Hand in Hand. My agent approached Sandridge Fuller, but they turned it down.’

‘What mugs they were. They might have been able to hold off the takeover if they’d had your mega sales.’

Ewan shrugged. ‘I’m really sorry if that’s the case, but please don’t think I’ve become a rich man. As a priest I’ve undertaken a vow of poverty, so my royalties are gifted to Waldringhythe’s Trust Fund. I do, however, draw generous expenses.’ He paused to light another cigarette. ‘Sorry to digress, Sally. Enough about me, as they say. Can we talk now about your daughter? Am I right that you have no other children?’

‘No. No other children. We wanted a big family – to make up for our own lonely childhoods, I suppose – but it took me a long time to conceive Louise, and after she was born another one just didn’t happen. We tried IVF for several years but it didn’t work for us. After a lot of soul-searching we decided to call a halt.’

‘This time was obviously a very sad and emotional part of your life. How did it affect things between you?’

‘Actually, we became really close. Our whole focus was on Louise and each other. We made lots of friends and took part in village activities. I ran the local playgroup, and Roger was captain of the village cricket team. It was then he began to spend quite a bit of time with Tim in his gardening business. I really encouraged him, as he enjoyed it so much. Little did I know why. It was exactly at that time they… they resumed their love affair. They’d been lovers before he met me, but you might not have known that.’

‘I did know that, and obviously so did Marina.’

‘I only found out the truth three years ago. It was such a shock. Roger was a wonderful husband and father, and I was still very much in love with him.’

‘And did you find that violence and anger spilled out?’

‘No. After the initial shock we made a pact to bottle it all up for Louise’s sake. She could tell we’d had a big row, but we just laughed it off. Took her on holiday to Cyprus and made a big show of lovey-dovey stuff. Roger and I agreed to remain friends, but we spent months in a miserable sort of limbo. But then he bought Finnegan, our Wolfhound. It was a brilliant move and united us all. Like caring for another baby.’

‘Then can you see your anger now as the repression of that time bursting out like hot lava? I’d be very surprised if Roger isn’t feeling some serious confusion too.’

Sally nodded. ‘The most difficult thing I have to face now is my relationship with Louise. She’s got no idea I’ve run away. We told her the truth last Christmas and she had a very powerful reaction. Something between disgust and heartbreak. I know one thinks that the youth of today accept all the quirks and vagaries of the human character, but I guess having a bisexual father extends the limits. She’s in France just now, but I’m bracing myself to tell her I’m selling up our home and starting a new life. She won’t be homeless, though. I intend to buy her a flat in Cambridge until I sort myself out.’

‘So that’s the whole story,’ Ewan said, fumbling on the tabletop and lighting his third cigarette of the interview. He paused briefly to inhale and continued. ‘I see things like this, Sally: Psychoanalysis is never the brief of a counsellor, so I can only suggest things to help your interaction with each other. Your anger is the manifestation of repression, but it’ll diminish with time as you forge into your new life. Why not contemplate for another week, and then arrange to meet Roger on neutral ground? He’ll be well into his own period of adjustment, and you’ll be able to talk in a calm, analytical way. You’re both really in a sort of mourning, you know. Not just for the living presence of each other, but for what you’ve lost; the day-in-day-out humdrum of life, but something we all need as a cripple needs a crutch. But remember you have a future, Sally, and somewhere in that new, untraveled land lies an exciting challenge and a peaceful relocation.’

He abruptly stubbed out his cigarette, and brought the interview to a close. ‘I’m sorry, but this must be enough for today. I must confess to a pounding headache. I want you to go away, think deeply and try to decide how you intend to focus. Can I see you here again tomorrow? Would nine o’clock be all right? Mondays are always manic, and it’s the only time I have.’

She stood up and confronted him with a level gaze. ‘You must stop smoking.’

‘I know I must, but I… I… I, too, need a prop.’ He deliberately avoided her scrutiny by dropping his head, tightening his hands around the arms of his rocker and skewering himself to his feet. Her eyes fell. Briefly, beneath the loose cut of the jogging trousers, his genital mound shuddered; a loose-hung scrotum and the glorious outline of a thick, diagonal shaft. ‘Goodbye, Sally.’

‘Goodbye, Ewan. I’d go back to bed if I were you.’

‘I will.’

‘Just one more thing. Crucifix Man. Do you have a spare copy?’

‘Yes, of course I do, but it’s not something I parade like a family photograph. It’s very much a part of me, but a part of me I must refuse to discuss.’ He went to a small walnut bureau, opened a drawer and withdrew a large postcard; the type found nationwide in galleries, museums and shops related to culture and the arts. He passed it to her and she gazed at it.

‘It’s stunning. Twenty-five years on, and the emotional impact’s never failed, has it?’

‘That’s the genius of Jacob Poznanski.’

‘Until tomorrow, then.’

‘Until tomorrow. God bless you.’