‘It’s Catherine,’ she said. She half thought, since they hadn’t been properly introduced, that she should add something like Michael’s wife, or possibly even the vicar’
s wife, for clarification. But she didn’t. The American woman jerked the door open and stepped forwards, standing a little closer than Catherine would have liked, wearing the same mismatch of clothes she’d been wearing when she arrived. She didn’t say anything. She seemed to be waiting for Catherine to speak. It was infuriating, this misplaced sense of – what was it, self-assurance? Self-possession?
‘We were just wondering if everything was okay,’ Catherine said. Speaking calmly, she hoped. ‘We were wondering if you needed anything,’ she added. The woman seemed to relax slightly.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Thank you for asking.’
‘Have you had any luck at the hospital?’ Catherine asked. ‘With your documents and everything?’ The woman smiled.
‘Oh, you know what these places are like,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively; ‘it’s all forms to fill out and papers to sign and documents to produce, it’s all just bureaucracy, isn’t it?’
Catherine looked at the woman, and noticed again how thin and pale she was. A little powder would have helped, a spot of colour, something around the eyes. She looked so drained. But she was probably the sort of woman who would disapprove of make-up.
‘Do you mind if I ask what your condition is exactly?’ Catherine said, speaking more abruptly than she’d intended. The woman looked at her a moment, blinking fiercely, as if she had something in her eye.
‘I’ll be going back there in the morning,’ she said, ignoring the question. ‘Maybe I can resolve the matter then and be out of your way.’
‘Oh?’ said Catherine. ‘Do you know how long you’ll be? Because Michael and I will both be out until quite late.’ The woman smiled, and started to close the door.
‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘it’s okay. I can let myself in, thank you.’
Catherine found Michael downstairs, sleeping in the armchair, and asked him if he’d given the woman a key. He stirred slightly, and sections of the weekend paper slipped from his lap to the floor. Catherine repeated the question, and he opened one eye to look at her. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ he said.
Which had reminded her, later, of the morning after the first night they’d spent together, and of him lying in bed with one eye open just like that, watching her dress. Because he’d thought he was dreaming and didn’t want to wake up, he’d said. It hadn’t looked like that, she’d told him, buttoning her blouse and looking around the room for her stockings; it had looked more like he was spying on her. She’d loved him watching her like that, then. And you a man of the cloth as well. This said when the idea of him as a vicar was some kind of joke still, before he was ordained; before they were married even, although there’d been some prevarication around that before, around whether they hadn’t better wait, which they’d settled by deciding that engagement was a commitment in itself and they were as good as married in God’s eyes. She remembered their haste over dinner that night, once the decision had been made; barely tasting the food, barely even speaking, catching a bus back to his friend’s flat while most people were only just heading out for the night. And then the heat and hurry of first sex, collapsing all too soon under the weight of expectation. The realisation that this, after all, was something else which would have to be learnt, considered, practised.
And what were they then, twenty-one, twenty-two? More than half a life ago now. Graduates, just, and already moving on to the next thing. Michael at theological college, preparing for ministry, talking about curacies and parishes and the discernment of vocation; Catherine less certain, knowing only that she wanted to carry on studying English, that she didn’t want to fall into teaching the way so many of her friends had done. No more than two years since they’d met, volunteering at the chaplaincy’s soup run – Michael overflowing with the thrill of new belief, Catherine looking for some way to rekindle a childhood faith which had been more inheritance than choice – and already the thought of them not being together had seemed puzzling and unreal. As if they had been brought inevitably to one another. Which she’d believed, then. Their life together had been so filled with purpose that it had felt like something more than chance: the soup-run project, and the Christmas night shelter they’d helped set up; the prayer vigils they’d organised, the 24-hour fasts; and that summer in Europe, sleeping in train stations and parks, going to free concerts in bombed-out churches, sharing open-air communion with Germans and Italians and Norwegians and thinking that this was how life would be for them now, that this endless sense of possibility was what her faith could finally come to mean.
And then there was marriage, ordination, a first curacy, a flat. A master’s degree, a PhD proposal, a funding problem, and falling into teaching term by term. All these things decided, settled, while they were still too young to know any better. You can go back to the research later though, Michael had told her, when the PhD fell through and she found herself accepting teaching work after all; there wasn’t any rush. Trying to reassure her. Keeping one eye on what she was doing.
On Monday morning they found the yoghurt spoon outside the American woman’s room, with a note. THANK YOU FOR THE SPOON, it said. Catherine knocked at the door, and waited a moment before peering inside. The bed was made, and the holdall the woman had brought with her was gone. But there were still clothes in the wardrobe, and a scarf hanging on the back of the door.
‘She hasn’t left then,’ Catherine said.
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Michael said, already turning away.
‘She might have just forgotten to pack everything.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, in a tone which suggested it was unlikely, and went downstairs. She closed the door and followed him, picking up the post and dropping it on the kitchen table while Michael put the kettle on to boil. She cut two slices of bread and put them in the toaster, and Michael fetched plates and knives and butter and honey from the cupboard. Unthinking, this routine. Unbreakable, almost.
‘I don’t like her,’ Catherine announced. Michael looked at her strangely.
‘Like her?’ he said. ‘You don’t even know her. Why would you like her or not like her?’ The toaster popped up before the toast was ready, as it always did. Something was wrong with the timer, apparently. Nothing which couldn’t be fixed. Catherine reached over and put it down again.
‘There’s something about her,’ she said. ‘She makes me uncomfortable. The way she looks at me. The way she seems to be taking us for granted.’ Michael filled the teapot, put it on the table, and sat down.
‘The way she looks at you?’ he repeated. He seemed amused. The toaster popped up, and she put it down again.
‘And the way she won’t answer my questions,’ she added. Michael made a noise in the back of his throat, something like a snort or a stopped chuckle. A harrumph, people would once have called it. She’d married a man who harrumphed at her across the breakfast table. The toaster popped up a third time. She brought the toast to the table and passed it over to him. ‘What’s she doing here, Michael?’ she asked, sharply. ‘What’s she doing in our house? She could be anyone. We don’t even know her name.’ He finished buttering his toast before replying, and she saw, in his expression, that same infuriating self-assurance which the American woman had shown her.
‘First,’ he said, ‘it’s not our house. It’s a vicarage. It belongs to the church, and we’re guests here just as much as she is.’ Catherine tried to cut in, but he held up a finger to stop her. Actually held up a finger. When had he started doing this? Why had she never said anything?
‘Second,’ he continued, ‘this woman came to me asking for help, and regardless of whether she’s odd or evasive or whether she’s even telling the truth I don’t see that any harm can come of offering her a room for a few nights. It’s not as if we need it.’ He poured the tea, sliding hers across the table and reaching for the pile of post. ‘But if you think I’ve made a mistake,’ he said, ‘you’re welcome to ask her to leave.’
There was a word for this, for the way he was being about this whole thing – superior? Supercilious? And there was a word for women like her who put up with this kind of behaviour for as long as she had – a word like, what, weak? Not weak exactly, it was more complicated than that, but not decisive, not assertive. Not when it mattered. She stood up, leaving the tea on the table and her toast uneaten. She’d given up slamming doors a long time ago, so instead she just left it gaping open and went upstairs to get ready for work.
Work was a lecturing post in the English department at the new university. She hadn’t ever got back to the research. There weren’t all that many research positions available in the English departments of new universities. She wrote the odd paper here and there, did her bit to keep the research assessment scores at a respectable level, but mostly she concentrated on shepherding her students through the set texts and critical literature; giving lectures and seminars, setting essays and marking essays and trying to keep up with all the paperwork which had lately crept into the job.
It was a good job though. She liked it. She couldn’t remember, now, why she had once been so determined to avoid teaching. She enjoyed standing in front of a group of students and helping them work their way towards an understanding of what literature could do, what it did do. Developing the analytical tools, it was called these days, although she preferred her first departmental head’s description of it as turning the lights on in there.