The Judgement of Strangers Read online

  ‘Thought so. Anyway, it made me curious. I knew there was a lot of rubbish up in the attic. Papers, and so on. George had them put up there when we moved from the other house. Said he was going to write the family history. God knows why. Literature wasn’t his line at all. Didn’t know one end of a pen from another. Anyway, he never had the opportunity. So all the rubbish just stayed up there.’

  Vanessa leant forwards. ‘Do you think you might write something yourself?’

  Lady Youlgreave held up her right hand. ‘With fingers like this?’ She let the hand drop on her lap. ‘Besides, what does it matter? It’s all over with. They’re all dead and buried. Who cares what they did or why they did it?’

  She stared out of the window at the bird table. I wondered if the morphine were affecting her mind. James Vintner had told me that he had increased the dose recently. Like the house and the dogs, their owner was sliding into decay.

  I said, ‘Vanessa’s read quite a lot of Francis Youlgreave’s verse.’

  ‘I’ve got a copy of The Four Last Things,’ Vanessa said. ‘The one with “The Judgement of Strangers” in it.’

  Lady Youlgreave stared at her for a moment. ‘There were two other collections, The Tongues of Angels and Last Poems. He published Last Poems when he was still up at Oxford. Silly man. So pretentious.’ Her eyes moved to me. ‘Pass me that book,’ she demanded. ‘The black one on the corner of the table.’

  I handed her a quarto-sized hardback notebook. The seconds ticked by while she opened it and tried to find the page she wanted. Vanessa and I looked at each other. Inside the notebook I saw yellowing paper, unlined and flecked with damp, covered with erratic lines of handwriting in brown ink.

  ‘There,’ Lady Youlgreave said at last, placing the open notebook on her side table and turning it so it was the right way up for Vanessa and me. ‘Read that.’

  The handwriting was a mass of blots and corrections. Two lines leapt out at me, however, because they were the only ones which had no alterations or blemishes:

  Then darkness descended; and whispers defiled

  The judgement of stranger, and widow, and child.

  ‘Is that his writing?’ Vanessa asked, her voice strained.

  Lady Youlgreave nodded. ‘This is a volume of his journal. March eighteen-ninety-four, while he was still in London.’ The lips twisted. ‘He was the vicar of St Michael’s in Beauclerk Place. I think this was the first draft.’ She looked up at us, at our eager faces, then slowly closed the book. ‘According to this journal, it was a command performance.’

  Vanessa raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Lady Youlgreave drew the book towards her and clasped it on her lap. ‘He wrote the first half of the first draft in a frenzy of inspiration in the early hours of the morning. He had just had an angelic visitation. He believed that the angel had told him to write the poem.’ Once more her lips curled and she looked from me to Vanessa. ‘He was intoxicated at the time, of course. He had been smoking opium earlier that evening. He used to patronize an establishment in Leicester Square.’ Her head swayed on her neck. ‘An establishment which seems to have catered for a variety of tastes.’

  ‘Are there many of his journals?’ asked Vanessa. ‘Or manuscripts of his poems? Or letters?’

  ‘Quite a few. I’ve not had time to go through everything yet.’

  ‘As you know, I’m a publisher. I can’t help wondering if you might have the material for a biography of Francis Youlgreave there.’

  ‘Very likely. For example, his journal gives a very different view of the Rosington scandal. From the horse’s mouth, as it were.’ Her lips twisted and she made a hissing sound. ‘The trouble is, this particular horse isn’t always a reliable witness. George’s father used to say – but I mustn’t keep you waiting like this. You haven’t had any sherry yet. I’m sure we’ve got some somewhere.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said.

  ‘The girl will know. She’s late. She should be bringing me my lunch.’

  The heavy eyelids, like dough-coloured rubber, drooped over the eyes. The fingers twitched, but did not relax their hold of Francis Youlgreave’s journal.

  ‘I think perhaps we’d better be going,’ I said. ‘Leave you to your lunch.’

  ‘You can give me my medicine first.’ The eyes were fully open again and suddenly alert. ‘It’s the bottle on the mantelpiece.’

  I hesitated. ‘Are you sure it’s the right time?’

  ‘I always have it before lunch,’ she snapped. ‘That’s what Dr Vintner said. It’s before lunch, isn’t it? And the girl’s late. She’s supposed to be bringing me my lunch.’

  There was a clean glass and a spoon beside the bottle on the mantelpiece. I measured out a dose and gave her the glass. She clasped it in both hands and drank it at once. She sat back, still cradling the glass. A dribble of liquid ran down her chin.

  ‘I’ll leave a note,’ I said. ‘Just to say that you’ve had your medicine.’

  ‘But there’s no need to write a note. I’ll tell Doris myself.’

  ‘It won’t be Doris,’ I said. ‘It’s the weekend, so it’s the nurse who’ll come in.’

  ‘Silly woman. Thinks I’m deaf. Thinks I’m senile. Anyway, I told you: I’ll tell her myself.’

  I could be obstinate, too. I scribbled a few words in pencil on a page torn from my diary and left it under the bottle for the nurse. Lady Youlgreave barely acknowledged us when we said goodbye. But when we were almost at the door, she stirred.

  ‘Come and see me again soon,’ she commanded. ‘Both of you. Perhaps you’d like to look at some of Uncle Francis’s things. He was very interested in sex, you know.’ She made a hissing noise again, her way of expressing mirth. ‘Just like you, David.’

  9

  Vanessa and I were married on a rainy Saturday in April. Henry Appleyard was my best man. Michael gave us a present, a battered but beautiful seventeenth-century French edition of Ecclesiasticus; according to the bookplate it had once been part of the library of Rosington Theological College.

  ‘It was his own idea,’ his mother whispered to me. ‘His own money, too. Quite a coincidence – Rosington, I mean.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t expensive.’

  ‘Five shillings. He found it in a junk shop.’

  ‘We’ve been very lucky with presents,’ Vanessa said. ‘Rosemary gave us a gorgeous coffee pot. Denbigh ware.’

  It was only then that I realized Rosemary was listening intently to the conversation. Later I noticed her examining the book, flicking through the pages as if they irritated her.

  Vanessa and I flew to Italy the same afternoon. She had arranged it all, including the pensione in Florence where we were to stay. I had assumed that if we had a honeymoon at all it would be in England. But Florence had been Vanessa’s idea, and she was so excited about it that I did not have the heart to try to change her mind. Her plan had support from an unexpected quarter: when I told Peter Hudson, he said, ‘She’s right. Get right away from everything. You owe it to each other.’

  It was raining in Florence, too. Not that it mattered. I wouldn’t have cared if the city had been buried beneath a pall of snow.

  We had dinner in a little restaurant. Vanessa was looking alluring in a dark dress which set off her hair. We talked more about Rosemary than ourselves. I found myself glancing surreptitiously at my watch. I did not eat much, though I drank more than my fair share of the wine.

  While we talked, I allowed my imagination to run free for the first time in ten years. I felt like a schoolboy at the end of term, or a convict coming to the end of his sentence.

  As the meal progressed, we talked less. An awkwardness settled between us. My thoughts scurried to and fro as though I were running a fever. Once or twice, Vanessa looked at me and seemed about to say something.

  The waiter asked if we would like coffee. I wanted to go back to our room, but Vanessa ordered coffee, with brandies to go with it. When the drinks came, she drank half her
brandy in a few seconds.

  ‘David, I have to admit I feel a bit nervous.’

  I leaned forward to light her cigarette. ‘Why?’

  ‘About tonight.’

  For a moment, neither of us spoke.

  ‘We’ll get used to it,’ I said. ‘I dare say we’ll both find it strange.’ The urgency was building up inside me. I touched Vanessa’s hand. ‘Dearest – you know, there’s no reason why it needn’t be enjoyable as well.’

  She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. ‘Charles didn’t seem – he didn’t want it very much. I don’t know why. Of course, it happened quite a lot when we were first married, but then it tailed off.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me this.’

  ‘I want to explain. Charles used to stay up reading until all hours and often I was asleep when he came to bed. There just never seemed to be much opportunity.’

  ‘Darling,’ I said, ‘don’t worry.’

  Her mouth twitched. ‘It’ll be all right on the night, will it?’

  ‘It will be. And then it will get better and better. Shall I get the bill?’

  We walked back – sedately, arm in arm – to our pensione. There was a part of me that wanted to make love to her there and then: to pull her into an alley, push her up against a wall and tear my way into her clothes; and all the while the rain would patter on our heads and shoulders, the lamplight would glitter in the puddles, and the snarls and honks of the traffic would make a savage, distant music.

  At the pensione, we collected our key and went upstairs. I locked the door behind us. I turned to find her standing in the middle of the room with her arms by her side.

  ‘Vanessa.’ My voice sounded like a stranger’s. ‘You’re lovely.’

  I took off my jacket and dropped it on a chair. I went to her, put my hands on her shoulders, stooped and kissed her gently on the lips. Her lips moved beneath mine. I took off her coat and let it fall to the floor. I nibbled the side of her neck. My fingers found the fastening of her dress. I peeled it away from her. She stood there in her underwear, revealed and vulnerable. Her arms tightened round my neck.

  ‘I’m cold. Can we get into bed?’

  I was a little disappointed: I had looked forward for months to slowly removing her clothes, to touching as much of her body as I could with my mouth. But all that could wait. She allowed me to help her quickly out of the rest of her clothes. She scrambled into bed and watched me as I quickly undressed. My excitement was obvious.

  ‘My handbag. I’ve got a cap.’

  ‘I’ve got a condom.’ I dropped my wallet on the bedside table and slithered into bed beside her.

  There was goose flesh on her arm. It was hard to move much because she was holding me so tightly. The restraint somehow increased my excitement. I kissed her hair frantically.

  ‘I want you,’ I muttered. ‘Let me come in.’

  She released her hold. I rolled over and found the condom in my wallet. My fingers were twice as clumsy as usual. At last I extracted the condom from its foil wrapper and rolled it over my penis. Vanessa was lying on her back, her legs slightly apart, watching me. There was a noise like surf in my ears.

  ‘Now, darling,’ I said. ‘Now, now.’

  I climbed on top of her, using my knees to spread her legs wider. I abandoned all attempts at subtlety. I wanted one thing and I wanted it now. Vanessa stared up at me and put her hands on my shoulders. Her face was very serious. I lowered myself and thrust hard into her. She gasped and tried to writhe away but now my hands were on her shoulders and she could not move. I cried out, a groan that had been building up inside me for ten years. And then, with embarrassing rapidity, it was all over.

  Trembling, I lay like a dead weight on top of her. In a moment, my trembling turned to sobs.

  Once again her arms tightened around me. ‘Hush now. It’s all right. It’s over.’

  It wasn’t over, not for either of us, and it wasn’t all right. Two hours later, I wanted her again. We were still awake, talking about the future. Vanessa agreed with me that it would obviously take time before we were sexually in tune with each other. That was to be expected. The second time everything happened more slowly. She lay there while I explored the hollows and curves of her body with my mouth. She let me do whatever I wanted, and I did.

  ‘Dearest David,’ she murmured, not once but many times.

  After I had come again, I asked if there was anything I could do for her, and she said no, not this time. She went into the little bathroom. I lit a cigarette and listened to the rustle of running water. When she came back, she was wearing her nightdress and her face was pink and scrubbed. Soon we turned out the light and settled down for sleep. I rested my arm over her. I felt her hand take mine.

  ‘How was it?’ I asked. ‘Was it very painful?’

  ‘I’m a little sore.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I want to make you happy.’

  ‘You do.’

  We were in Florence for seven days. We looked at pictures, listened to music and sat in cafés. And we made love. Each night she lay there and allowed me to do whatever I wanted; and I did. On the seventh night I found her crying in the bathroom.

  ‘Darling, what’s wrong?’

  She lifted her tear-stained face to me, a sight which I found curiously erotic. ‘It’s nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s a little painful. Sore.’

  I smiled. ‘So am I, as a matter of fact. Not used to the exercise. I dare say we’ll soon toughen up. It’s like walking without shoes. One needs practice.’

  She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite come off. ‘And my breasts are rather painful too. I think my period is due.’

  ‘We needn’t do anything tonight,’ I said, my disappointment temporarily swamped by my desire to be kind.

  We sat in bed reading. She was the first to turn out the light. The evening felt incomplete. I lay on my back and stared up into the darkness.

  ‘Vanessa?’ I said softly. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you feel about making love when you have a period?’ It had suddenly occurred to me that it might be several days before we had an opportunity to do it again. ‘I should say that I don’t mind it, myself.’

  ‘Actually, it’s very painful for me. I have heavy periods. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ I said; I turned and put my arm around her. ‘It doesn’t matter. Sleep well. God bless.’

  As usual, her hand gripped mine. I lay there, my penis as erect as a guardsman on parade, listening to the sound of her breathing.

  10

  After our return from Italy, Vanessa and I slipped into the new routine of our shared lives. We were even happy, in a fragmentary fashion, as humans are happy. Though what was in store was rooted in ourselves – in our personalities and our histories – we had no inkling of what was coming. As humans do, we kept secrets from ourselves, and from each other.

  Towards the end of May, Peter and June Hudson came to supper. They were our first real guests. The meal was something of a celebration. Peter had been offered preferment. Though there had been no official announcement, he was to be the next Bishop of Rosington.

  ‘It’s a terrifying prospect,’ June said placidly. ‘No more lurking in the background for me. No more communing with the kitchen sink. I shall have to be a proper Mrs Bishop and shake hands with the County.’

  ‘You could be a Mrs Proudie,’ Vanessa suggested. ‘Rule your husband’s diocese with a rod of iron.’

  ‘It sounds quite attractive.’ She smiled at her husband. ‘I’m sure Peter wouldn’t mind. It would give the little woman something to do.’

  The news unsettled me. I was not jealous of Peter’s preferment, though in the past I might have been. But inevitably the prospect of his going to Rosington awakened memories.

  After the meal, June and Vanessa took their coffee into t
he sitting room while Peter and I washed up.

  ‘When will you go to Rosington?’ I asked.

  ‘In the autumn. October, probably. I shall take a month off in August and try to prepare myself.’

  I squirted a Z of washing-up liquid into a baking dish. ‘I’ll miss you. And June.’

  ‘You and Vanessa must come and visit. At least there’ll be plenty of space.’

  ‘I don’t know. Going back isn’t always such a good idea.’

  ‘Sometimes staying away is a worse one.’

  ‘Damn it, Peter. You don’t make it easy, do you?’

  He dried a glass with the precision he brought to everything. We worked in silence for a moment. It was a muggy evening and suddenly I felt desperate for air. I opened the back door to put out the rubbish. Lord Peter streaked into the kitchen.

  Had I been by myself, I would have shouted at him. But I did not want Peter – my friend, not the cat – to think me more unbalanced than he already did. When I returned from the dustbin, I found that the two Peters had formed a mutual admiration society.

  ‘I didn’t know you liked cats.’

  ‘Oh yes. Is this one yours?’

  ‘It belongs to one of my parishioners.’

  The cat purred. Peter, who was crouching beside it with a pipe in his mouth, glanced up at me. ‘You don’t like either of them very much?’

  ‘She’s a good woman. A churchwarden.’

  ‘Is that an answer?’

  ‘It’s all you’re going to get.’

  ‘I shall miss our regular meetings.’

  ‘So shall I.’

  ‘When I go to Rosington, you’ll need a new spiritual director.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘A change will do you good.’ Peter’s voice was suddenly stern, and the cat wriggled away from him. ‘Perhaps we know each other too well. A new spiritual director may be more useful to you.’

  ‘I’d rather continue with you.’

  ‘It just wouldn’t be practical. We shall be too far away from each other. You need to see someone regularly. Don’t you agree?’