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‘No, but this is the one occasion where you must be ruthless – or if you really can’t face tackling Nora I’ll tackle Emily. I’ve no scruples at all about imposing on my sister in urgent circumstances.’
‘I always feel so awkward about asking Emily to have the children when she has no children of her own –’
‘Nonsense – they’ll provide a welcome diversion from that dreary husband of hers! Now listen to me, Grace. I quite understand why you should feel this weekend will be an ordeal, but it’s an ordeal you’re perfectly capable of surmounting – all you’re being required to do is to look pretty and be polite. I’m not trying to throw you to the lions. I’m just trying to ensure you don’t miss out on an exciting and worthwhile excursion. Make up your mind you’re going to enjoy yourself! Why not? Why shouldn’t it all be great fun?’
But Grace only said in despair: ‘How I wish we’d never left Willowmead!’ and I heard her stifle a sob as she rushed from the room.
II
‘I didn’t mean it, Neville – of course I didn’t mean it – I just feel nostalgic about Willowmead sometimes, that’s all …’
I had followed her to our bedroom where she had retreated to calm down, and as we faced each other we could hear the charwoman talking good-naturedly to Sandy as she worked in the drawing-room below us. Primrose was at nursery school as usual. I was supposed to be on my way to a diocesan committee meeting, and I was acutely conscious of the clock ticking on the bedside table as I was obliged to delay my departure.
‘I know how much you loved Willowmead,’ I said, ‘but we’ve been happy in Starbridge too and we’re going to go on being happy here.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’
‘To be honest, I find the Starmouths intimidating as well. But one can’t spend one’s life cowering in corners just because one feels socially inferior!’
‘No, of course not. Will there be a maid, do you think, to unpack our suitcases? I don’t want anyone seeing my darned underwear.’
‘In that case I’ll tell the servant we don’t require help with the unpacking. Now Grace, stop worrying yourself into a frenzy, there’s a good girl, and make up your mind you’re going to be strong, brave and resourceful!’
‘Yes. All right. I’ll try,’ she said, but my heart sank as her shoulders drooped.
Willing myself not to despair I hurried off to my meeting at the diocesan office on Eternity Street.
III
Starmouth Court stood not, as might be assumed, near the port of Starmouth in the south of the diocese, but eighteen miles from London in the county of Surrey; the Earl’s connection with Starmouth was lost in the mists of antiquity. When we eventually arrived at our destination on a sunlit Saturday morning in July, I was just as horrified as Grace to discover not a friendly country house but a tall stout elderly mansion of forbidding proportions. Accustomed though I was to calling at the various grand houses in my archdeaconry, I had never been invited to stay the night in these places and the thought of being a guest in the Starmouths’ overpoweringly dignified country seat made me feel for a moment like a fallen woman obliged to take refuge with a formidable maiden aunt.
Built high on a hillside the house was surrounded by trees and approached by a long winding drive which strained both our nerves and the engine of the chauffeur-driven motor which our hostess had sent to meet us at the station. ‘“Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came,’” I muttered to Grace before the Dark Tower was revealed as the plump Queen Anne palace. I allowed myself one quick shudder before resolving fiercely to appear self-possessed. ‘Isn’t it exactly like the country house in a detective story?’ I murmured to Grace with a heroic attempt at nonchalance. ‘I foresee corpses in the library, a sinister butler lurking behind the green baize door and Hercule Poirot hovering in the shrubbery!’
But Grace was too terrified to reply.
We were admitted by a stately footman to a hall the size of a tennis court. Vast pictures of men in togas were suspended from points so remote as to be barely visible. An enormous arrangement of flowers stood in what appeared to be a pseudo-Greek vase. Then I realized there was nothing pseudo about the vase. It had that dim ancient look which is impossible to reproduce, and it reminded me of countless visits to the British Museum on wet Saturday afternoons in my childhood when Willy and I, boarded out with strict Methodists, had taken refuge once a week in the sights of London.
‘Nice flowers,’ I said casually to Grace in an automatic effort to signal to the footman that I found the hall itself too mundane to merit a comment. ‘Very well arranged.’
I had barely finished speaking when a door banged, footsteps pattered swiftly in our direction down a distant corridor and the next moment someone was bursting joyously into the hall. A familiar peel of laughter rang out. A well-remembered voice cried: ‘Welcome to Starmouth Court!’ And with horrified delight I recognized my disciple.
IV
‘Did you know she was going to be here?’ demanded Grace as soon as we were alone in the bedroom which had been assigned to us, but my stupefaction was so obviously genuine that she never doubted my denial. Moving to the window I saw that the room was placed at the back of the house and overlooked a formal garden which unfolded upwards in a series of terraces before rolling out of sight over the summit of the hill. On the lowest lawn twin rows of classical statues eyed each other across a sward dotted with croquet-hoops. The sun was still shining radiantly, reminding me that I felt much too hot.
‘She should have told me,’ I said as I automatically took advantage of the opportunity to remove my clerical collar. ‘Why on earth didn’t she mention it in her last letter?’
‘I suppose she thought it would be fun to surprise you.’ Grace was already unpacking her darned underwear before a servant could materialize, like the genie of the lamp, between her and the open suitcase.
‘I don’t like those sort of surprises.’ I began to roam around the room. The brass bedstead gleamed. Lifting the counterpane I absent-mindedly fingered the very white sheets.
‘I suppose they’re real linen,’ said Grace. ‘And look at those towels by the washstand! Can they possibly be linen too?’
‘Must be pre-war. But expensive things always look new for years.’ I stared around at the room’s luxury, so subtly sumptuous, so tastefully extravagant, and before I could stop myself I was saying: ‘I suppose you’re still wishing you hadn’t come.’
‘Oh no!’ said Grace at once. ‘Now that the adventure’s begun I’m enjoying myself – in fact I’m sure you were right and it’s all going to be great fun!’
I did realize that Grace was belatedly exercising her intelligence, but I found I had no desire to consider the implications of this new canny behaviour. I merely smiled, gave her a grateful kiss and began to unpack my bag.
V
Everyone was very kind to Grace, who despite her tortuous self-doubts was as capable as I was of being socially adept in unfamiliar circumstances. Certainly no one was kinder than Dido who lavished attention on her to such an extent that I was almost ignored. More than once I told myself conscientiously how relieved I was that my disciple was on her best behaviour; it seemed all I now had to do, in order to survive the weekend with my clerical self-esteem intact, was to stick close to my wife and keep my eyes off Dido’s legs which seemed to shimmer like erotic beacons whenever I glanced in her direction. I even thought in a burst of optimism that I might soon be able to write off my embarrassingly carnal preoccupation with Dido as an example of that well-known phenomenon, the middle-aged man’s vulnerability to the charms of youth. However although I was keen to reduce my feelings to a trivial inconvenience I suspected I was still too young to be in the grip of a middle-aged malaise. Or was I? If my diagnosis was correct I could only shudder. If I was like this at forty, what would I be like at fifty? I had a fleeting picture of myself at sixty, an elderly lecher surrounded by young girls, and it was not at all a cheering vision for a churchman who had always been anxious to Get On and Travel Far.
The weekend gathering at Starmouth Court was hardly ‘smart’ in society’s sense of the word, although Lady Starmouth ensured that the atmosphere was friendly and cultivated. In addition to my disciple, who was on a seventy-two-hour leave, the guests consisted of a residentiary canon of Radbury Cathedral and his wife, a contemporary of the Earl’s from the House of Lords, a bossy lady of uncertain age who worked in London for Jewish refugees and who talked of Bishop Bell with the enthusiasm women usually reserve for film stars, an etiolated civil servant from the Ministry of Information, and the Starmouths’ youngest daughter Rosalind, who had been a debutante with Dido in 1933; her husband was now serving with the Army in India. I soon felt confident that I could hold my own in this company, even with the Canon who was at least twenty years my senior, but nonetheless I was careful to temper my growing self-confidence with a quiet unassuming manner. Alex had warned me more than once that the upper-classes disliked a newcomer who was too strident.
‘Whatever you do,’ I said to Grace as we changed for dinner on the night of our arrival, ‘don’t mention to that bossy Miss Wilkins who’s obviously in love with Bishop Bell that I may be having contact with German prisoners in the future at the new camp on Starbury Plain. Once one starts discussing the Church’s attitude towards Germans Bell’s name’s bound to come up and I don’t want to get involved in any conversation which is politically controversial.’
‘But I thought you admired Bishop Bell!’
‘Yes. Privately. But I don’t want anyone thinking I’m “soft on Germans”.’
‘I’m sure no one would think –’
‘Oh yes, they would! The trouble is that politically speaking Bell’s dynamite. Why has he been passed over for senior bishoprics? Because over and over again he’s stood up in the House of Lords to hammer away at the government and in consequence even though he’s no pacifist people are convinced he’s soft on Germans!’
‘But he’s not soft on Nazis, is he? The people who accuse him of being soft on Germans aren’t really being fair –’
‘No, but I just don’t want to get into one of those arguments about whether it’s possible in wartime conditions such as these to make a distinction between the Nazis and the non-Nazis in Germany – I don’t want to get into any argument about the morality of saturation bombing. Of course Bell’s right to champion the cause of the suffering Germans – all the Christian and Jewish refugees before the war, all the Christians and Jews now in the concentration camps, even all the Germans who are loathing every moment of Hitler’s rule but have somehow managed to stay free – and of course it’s absolutely wrong to say, as that ass Babbington-French says, that the only good German’s a dead German, but Bell shouldn’t try to tell Churchill how to run the war. It’s madness, absolute madness – as well as professional suicide – and I can’t support it. We’ve got to stay solidly behind Churchill, got to – how else are we going to survive this appalling ordeal?’
‘Oh darling, I do understand and I do agree with you – please don’t think I’m criticizing! Where would we all be now if it wasn’t for Mr Churchill? Not at Starmouth Court, that’s certain! It’s just that I can’t help admiring Bishop Bell for standing up for Christian values in such very adverse circumstances and at such personal cost to himself –’
‘Yes, he’s a hero.’ I moved to the window to stare out at the terraced lawns. ‘Charles Raven stays in his academic ivory tower and preaches pacifism,’ I said, ‘but George Bell’s out there in the chaos, battling away doggedly for God in a world gone mad. I used to admire no churchman more than Raven, but now I think … well, never mind what I think. As I said earlier, it’s best to keep quiet on the subject of the Bishop of Chichester.’
Much to my surprise Grace suddenly kissed me and said: ‘I’m glad you admire him so much. That’s the real you, isn’t it?’
‘Real me?’ I was much pleased by this unexpected gesture of affection.
‘The man behind the successful archdeacon.’
‘The successful archdeacon’s the real me too.’
‘Yes, but –’
I suddenly caught a glimpse of the time. ‘We ought to be going downstairs,’ I said, trying not to sound nervous at the thought of the grand meal ahead. ‘Are you ready?’
We hurried down to dinner.
VI
After the ladies had retired from the table, Lord Starmouth abandoned his other guests to a discussion of the Desert War – now grimmer than ever after the shattering fall of Tobruk less than three weeks before – and motioned me into a quiet corner by the sideboard.
‘Alex Jardine’s always spoken highly of you,’ he said, ‘but perhaps now is the moment when I should confess it wasn’t Jardine who prompted my wife’s invitation to you this weekend.’
‘Then I must assume it was Dr Ottershaw.’
‘As a matter of fact it wasn’t him either. Ottershaw’s been singing your praises for years, I admit, but I’m ashamed to say my wife and I ignored him. No, your cause has been promoted by Miss Tallent, Archdeacon.’
I stifled a gasp, prayed not to blush and belatedly realized that my mouth was open. I managed to close it.
‘Dear little Dido!’ said the Earl, taking advantage of the fact that his advanced years gave him a licence to be openly sentimental about young girls. ‘She showed me the letters.’
This time I was unable to stifle a gasp. My mouth had sagged open again.
‘Your letters!’ said the Earl, smiling at me benignly. ‘I really must congratulate you, Archdeacon – what an epistolary tour de force! I particularly liked your essay on the Incarnation, complete with Professor Sanday’s Modernist development of the kenotic aspect. Lucky little Dido, I thought, stumbling across a clergyman who could so ably guide her along her spiritual way.’
By a mighty effort I recovered myself sufficiently to say: ‘I’m glad my efforts met with your approval, my Lord.’
‘Well, as soon as I’d read the letters I said to my wife: “I must hear this man preach!” I look forward immensely to your sermon tomorrow – and little Dido, I might add, is in a veritable fever of anticipation.’ The Earl sighed with pleasure, though whether at the thought of my sermon or of ‘little Dido’ it was impossible to discern. ‘There’s a heart of gold underneath all that flashy behaviour,’ he confided, ‘and I’m delighted she’s become more serious lately. I suspect she’s been very unhappy. London society’s an awful business. I’m glad my daughters married quickly and didn’t have to rattle about for too long … Now tell me this, Archdeacon: do you think little Dido should marry into the Church? You may not have realized this, but she’s set her heart on it –’ That was when I finally dared to believe that Dido had been highly selective in her choice of letters ‘– and to be honest I can’t quite see her in a vicarage. I don’t think she realizes how old-fashioned the Church is in so many ways and how conventional her behaviour would have to become. She’d be better off with a land-owning politician, I think – someone who has a house in London and a few hundred acres somewhere in hunting country.’
‘Possibly so.’ A still small voice was now busy whispering in my mind that with Dido at my side no ecclesiastical prize would be unobtainable, but I knew very well that this voice came not from God but from the force which old-fashioned churchmen called the Devil and which I, as a good Modernist, recognized as the dark side of my ego. I have no wish to make excuses for the dark side of my ego, but perhaps I might be permitted to attempt to justify the desire to do as well as I possibly could in my career – the desire which my critics would unhesitatingly label as an ambition quite unbecoming to a clergyman.
Ambition, like everything else in one’s life, must be dedicated to the service of God. When I dreamed of preferment I had no wish merely to serve myself; I only wanted to get into a position where I could serve God to the very best of my God-given ability, and the truth was that my God-given ability was not for living on locusts and wild honey as a holy man in the wilderness. My talent was for administration. My archdeaconry ran like clockwork. My curates were trained, groomed and buffed to a high lustre. I had only to cast an eye on any diocesan department and bureaucratic slovenliness instantly evaporated. I could put the Bishop through his paces so painlessly that he ceased to be depressed by paperwork.
Now, I’m willing enough to admit that this gift of mine is not spiritually exciting, but I submit, with all due respect, that not every clergyman is born to be a St Francis of Assisi or a St Ignatius Loyola. My duty was not to waste time bemoaning my limitations, but to dedicate my gift, modest as it was, to God’s service. Am I deceiving myself when I speculate that God was probably glad to receive it even though it was sadly lacking in spiritual glamour? I think not. After all, someone has to run the Church of England, that historic witness to the power of the Christian faith, and since in an imperfect world a Church can hardly thrive on a diet of undiluted holiness, first-class administrators must always be essential for its welfare.
In short, I felt I could justify my ambition to travel upwards in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. What I could never justify was a desire to travel that road in the company of a woman who wasn’t my wife. That was utterly reprehensible and no good clergyman would ever allow himself to sink so low – a statement which was the equivalent of saying the thought had never occurred to me because I was such a good clergyman. Wiping it from my mind with shame I resolved to forego the pleasure of making love to my wife beneath an earl’s roof that night and instead spend time polishing my sermon.
Alex had once advised me that a clergyman addressing the upper classes from the pulpit should never forget that they had received, no matter how unwillingly, a good education; he had recommended including at least one well-known quotation at the start of the sermon, as they would feel clever when they recognized the words and this self-satisfaction would put them in a benign, receptive mood. Accordingly when writing the sermon I had begun with a quotation from Browning (‘How very hard it is to be a Christian!’), glided into Tennyson (‘Ring out the darkness of the land; ring in the Christ that is to be’), brushed against T. S. Eliot (‘Each venture is a new beginning’), and bound all these lines together with one of my favourite biblical texts: ‘Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, yea and forever,’ – words which I always felt offered comfort, particularly in an unstable, war-torn world.
Starmouth Court stood in the parish of Leatherhead, a pleasant country town not far from the outer reaches of the South London suburbs, and the fine Norman church overlooked the valley of the River Mole, so called for its habit of burrowing underground in unexpected places. I wondered if the vicar minded when his distinguished parishioners imposed guest-preachers on him, but when he greeted me with unflinching cordiality I deduced he was more than ready to welcome a holiday from homiletics. The service began. The moment for the sermon arrived, and without wishing to brag I must confess that I made the most of my golden opportunity.
It was after lunch when I was cornered by Lady Starmouth. Having discovered that afternoon rests were permitted to guests, Grace had slipped away to our room in order to drum up some extra stamina and I had wandered outside for a stroll in the grounds. I wound up prowling aimlessly from terrace to terrace as I tried to pretend I had no desire to bump into Dido.
‘Archdeacon! Just the man I wanted to see,’ exclaimed my hostess, eventually ensnaring me as I loafed around the rose garden’s wishing-well. ‘Let’s sit down for a moment. I want to talk to you about Dido.’
‘Ah!’ I said. The monosyllable might have seemed unadventurous but at least it had the merit of being uncontroversial. I allowed myself to be steered to an elegant wrought-iron seat which overlooked a bed of oppressively feminine red roses.
‘I really must congratulate you, Mr Aysgarth,’ said Lady Starmouth, dark eyes very friendly, and bestowed upon me one of her most gracious smiles.
‘Oh?’ I said, dumb as any uncouth Yorkshire yokel. In panic I ordered myself to abandon these absurd monosyllables.
‘Come now, Archdeacon!’ said Lady Starmouth, effortlessly charming, subtly grand. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about! Of course you’re well aware that Dido’s in love with you, and of course you realize that I’m congratulating you on your skill in dealing with her infatuation.’
‘Ah!’ I said again. No wonder Yorkshiremen had a dour reputation. All I needed to complete my imitation of the wooden-headed provincial northerner was a cloth cap. Furious with myself for being so crippled by shyness I cursed the entire English class system and tried to pretend my hostess was merely one of my middle-class parishioners.
‘I’m not sure I entirely agree with your diagnosis of Dido’s feelings, Lady Starmouth,’ I said, somehow producing a casual smile, the kind of smile a clever clergyman produces when he’s talking of worldly matters to a sophisticated older woman. ‘She’s not in love with me. She’s in love with what I represent.’
‘That’s a shrewd remark and confirms my opinion that you’re no fool. But Archdeacon, I think it’s time someone helped you by throwing a little extra light on what could prove to be an inflammable situation. The truth is, I’m afraid, that Dido’s a very naughty little girl. Oh, I concede there are extenuating circumstances – the father’s a rogue, the mother’s unpresentable, new money always produces vulgar consequences – but nevertheless one can’t escape the fact that the Tallent children were thrown into society with only hired old crones to chaperone them, and since those three girls had no education, no breeding, no proper childhood discipline and no real inkling of how they should conduct themselves, it’s hardly surprising that their social successes – based, I may say, entirely on their ability to flirt – should have resulted in scandal and tragedy. Dido’s told you the whole sad story, I presume?’
‘She did mention –’
‘Merry’s married to a compulsive gambler, Laura’s dead and Dido has a reputation for … shall we call it mischief? She makes fools of the decent men and chases the rakes. Has she talked to you about Rollo Carlton-Blake? He’s a confirmed bachelor with a penchant for loose women of the lower classes, as everyone told her years ago, but Dido took no notice of what everyone told her and I believe I know why. Au fond that girl doesn’t want to get married, Mr Aysgarth, and that’s why, consciously or unconsciously, she falls in love with men who are either impossible, like Carlton-Blake, or unavailable, like you. I once had an American friend who was like that. She too fell in love with a very promising young married clergyman and nearly ruined him – although I’m glad to say he survived and became a bishop. Such women are dangerous … But perhaps you’d already reached that conclusion and were wondering how to extricate yourself?’
‘I must be quite honest,’ I said, heart sinking as I realized I was being compelled to lie, ‘and say I’m anxious to extricate myself, but as a clergyman I can’t help but be mindful of the fact that I might be promoting a genuine spiritual awakening by writing to her. As the Bible says, one mustn’t quench the smouldering flax or break the bruised reed. Any new moral awareness should be carefully nurtured.’
‘Quite. That’s very conscientious of you, Mr Aysgarth, and indeed my husband said much the same thing when Dido resurrected her old friendship with Rosalind in order to cultivate our acquaintance on your behalf, but be warned and take care … And now,’ said Lady Starmouth, having completed her verbal disembowelling of my disciple, ‘let’s turn to pleasanter subjects. What a very charming and delightful wife you have! I do hope she’s enjoying herself.’
Immediately I suspected that this was no new subject but merely a different aspect of a certain sinister theme. ‘We’re both enjoying ourselves immensely, Lady Starmouth!’ I said, feigning a sunny-natured innocence. ‘It’s been the most memorable weekend!’
‘How delighted I am to hear you say so!’ Lady Starmouth had evidently decided that a little sunny-natured innocence of her own was now called for. ‘I’d heard a rumour that your wife doesn’t care much for social occasions.’
‘Really?’ I said surprised. ‘How extraordinary! She has a wide circle of friends and of course her parish duties – which she performs to perfection – require her to be very sociable indeed.’
‘How proud you must be of her! An excellent wife is so essential for a clergyman. I once knew a very unfortunate clergyman’s wife,’ said Lady Starmouth, again wielding her clerical memories with ruthless skill. ‘She spent her whole time weeping on a chaise-longue because she couldn’t cope with her responsibilities. The effect on the poor husband was quite devastating, but fortunately in the end he obtained the necessary domestic help – always so essential for a clergyman’s wife, don’t you think? – and I’m glad to say they lived happily ever after. More or less.’ She gave me yet another of her radiant smiles and rose to her feet. ‘I’m reminded of your sermon this morning,’ she added lightly. ‘“How very hard it is to be a Christian” – and how very hard, Browning might have added, it is to be a clergyman! But of course since you’re a clever devout man with an admirable wife who offers you every support, I’m sure you find life far easier than some of your less fortunate brethren.’ And having signalled to her new protégé that she was happy to lavish approval on him so long as he had the good sense to keep his private life in order, she drifted gracefully away from me across the rose garden.
VII
The immediate result of this scene was that I wanted to punch Alex on the nose for gossiping about me to his favourite ladyfriend, but then I calmed down and reflected that I had jumped to a conclusion which was most unlikely to be true. Devoted as Alex was to Lady Starmouth, he would hardly have disclosed to her details about my domestic troubles; any clergyman would have judged our conversation about my private life to be confidential. Reluctantly I was driven to assume that some other person – perhaps Mrs Ottershaw, commenting on Grace’s absence from the fatal palace dinner-party – had indiscreetly murmured that the Archdeacon’s wife seemed to be quietly fading away at the vicarage, and Lady Starmouth had consequently made her own shrewd deductions about what was going on in my marriage. I saw clearly that she liked Grace but doubted her stamina, that she liked me but worried that I might land up in a mess, and that she disliked Dido very much indeed but was prepared to tolerate her for a weekend in order to humour her husband.
Feeling considerably shaken by this benign but bruising encounter with my hostess, I put aside all thoughts of a chance encounter with Dido among the roses and withdrew to the house. No one was about. Padding upstairs I glided along a thick carpet past portraits of voluptuous Georgian ladies and quietly eased open the door of the bedroom in an attempt to avoid waking Grace. But she was not asleep. To my dismay, exasperation and – worst of all – anger, I found her sobbing softly into her pillow.
I shoved the door shut. Then making a belated effort to control my feelings I slumped down on the bed beside her and said in my most neutral voice: ‘So the truth is you hate it here. You were only pretending to enjoy it.’
I had thought such bleak statements might jolt her into a denial but she merely nodded her head in despair as she made a futile attempt to wipe away her tears.
‘And of course you’re missing the children.’
Another nod. More tears began to fall.
Rising to my feet I took off my jacket and hung it carefully over the back of the nearest chair; because of the heat I had changed from my archidiaconal uniform to a plain clerical suit immediately after lunch. Then I removed my collar and slumped down on the bed again. These trivial movements helped to calm me. My voice was still devoid of resentment when I said: ‘Well, it’s no good having anything but a candid talk, is it? We’ve got to try to solve this problem.’
Grace made yet another attempt to mop up her tears but by this time her eyes were red and swollen. I realized it was going to be impossible for her to go down to tea.
‘Now,’ I said, trying to take control of the situation by adopting a brisk sensible manner, ‘the first thing we have to do is to find out why you’re so unhappy. I’m not talking about your present misery. I’m talking about the more general unhappiness which I know has been afflicting you for some time. When exactly did it all begin? Was it when we found out Sandy had been conceived and you started to worry about how you were going to cope?’
I was, of course, busy laying the foundations for an unanswerable argument that we should employ a live-in nursemaid, so I was expecting her to reply ‘Yes’ to my question. It came as a considerable shock to me when she said: ‘No, this has nothing to do with Sandy. He simply complicated a situation which already existed.’
I stared at her. ‘You’re saying this unhappiness existed before Sandy was conceived in 1940?’
‘Yes, I first became aware of it when we moved to Starbridge in ’37, but now that I look back with the wisdom of hindsight I believe the seeds of my unhappiness were sown in 1932.’
‘At Willowmead? But that’s impossible! You were so happy there!’
‘Yes, but that’s when things started to go wrong.’
‘But what on earth happened at Willowmead in ’32?’
‘You met Alex Jardine. As soon as he started taking an interest in you he was a malign influence on our lives.’
