The Reluctant Widow part 3

The garden on the far side of the vicarage was still half in slumber despite the warm April sunshine. Rows of violets and daffodils gave some colourful relief to the pervading green of shoots and leaves. Simon was at once fully aware that he had not been outside for days, gladly filling his lungs, feeling the fresh air revitalise him. Jenny proudly showed him around, becoming more animated as she told him of expectant blooms. As she talked, Simon realised what had been bothering him about her this morning - her hair. He saw again clearly that first image of her, with her silky hair flowing about her face like a mysterious shadow around a pale moon. Today her hair was done up in a bun and the mystery was shorn.
He looked around at the woods that ran along the hills and down around the village. ‘I can certainly see where Morton gets its name from.’
Jenny smiled. ‘This was the original village. Later on they built Morton Town close by.’
‘Have you always lived here?’
‘I was born here. I used to teach in the village school. What do you do?’
‘I seem to be permanently between things. I left school without a single idea of what I wanted to be. My parents wanted me to study law, so I humoured them.’
‘But you were unhappy?’
‘I hated it. Is there anything so boring as the Law?’
‘Why didn’t you tell them?’
‘I was always meaning to but...I didn’t want to disappoint them I suppose. Then they were killed suddenly in a car crash. Since then I’ve been drifting, living off the money they left me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It's already more than four years ago, but I think in some ways it’s still sinking in.’
‘I miss my parents still, after all these years.’
‘I know...it’s hard.’
‘My father...had a stroke, which made him an invalid. The strain of looking after him was too much for my mother. I helped as much as I could but...’ Jenny lowered her gaze, retreating into memory. They moved mournfully through the colour and promise around them. Then Simon asked, ‘Can you show me where I crashed?’
Jenny led him along a narrow path that ran at the side of the vicarage connecting the house with the garden at the back and the grave yard at the front. They paused for a moment before the expanse of headstones.
‘Jack Dibney’s grave is right on the outer edge. That’s the stone you knocked over.’ She took him further down a natural slope to the point where the grave yard backed onto the road. Simon saw at once the curve he had failed to take, which would have led him to the village centre. Instead his car had run up the bank making a complete mess of the outermost grave. Jenny rubbed her shoe against the skid marks.
‘We were always planning to put a proper brick wall around this part of the cemetery.’
‘Lucky for me you didn’t.’ Simon kicked at the dirt.
Jenny was already walking back up the path. He followed in silence. She stopped at a cross-way. ‘Would you like to see inside the church?’
Simon nodded.
‘Its not very big,’ she continued. ‘It was only ever meant to take the small village congregation. There’s a much bigger church in Morton Town.’
‘Why did they build it so far away from the centre?’
‘The idea was that people would have time to think as they made their “pilgrimage” to the service each Sunday. Others said that it gave the less God-fearing amongst them time to sober up.’

Simon screwed his eyes into the sun to look at the Church. There was nothing quaint or appealing about it. The stones were weathered and drab, the spire a sombre crooked peninsular against the Spring sky. Once inside, it took a moment for his eyes to accustom to the gloomy interior. He followed her down the narrow aisle, admiring the lilt of her body beneath her simple navy blue dress. The decoration was sparse; along the walls were darkened paintings depicting Christ’s Passion, the high arched ceiling was plain but still impressive. On a pedestal behind the altar was a large wood carving of Christ on the cross. Simon was no believer, all the same the sight disturbed him.
‘Do you believe that he really died for us?’ Jenny asked, following his gaze.
‘I know that we live and die. What comes before or after is pure conjecture.’
‘Or faith?’
‘Faith is just how far down the road you want to go...or be led.’
Jenny didn’t pursue the matter. She crossed herself, kneeling before the altar in prayer. Simon felt awkward standing by her, as if he was intruding in some private conversation, so he sat down on one of the long oak pews. Religion had always been a struggle for him between scepticism and wonder; the close proximity to Jenny’s faith was unsettling. She crossed herself once more then sat next to him. ‘I envy you,’ he said. ‘You have your faith, your God and Heaven to look forward to. I’m stuck with alive or dead and a world that refuses to be ideal.’
Jenny gave him a cool look. ‘You make too much of my belief. It is no protection from pain.’
They remained silent for a while, then Jenny said softly, ‘I was praying for you just then.’
‘For me?’
‘I thanked God for delivering you from harm.’
‘I’m...flattered if that’s the right word. Nobody has ever prayed for me before.’
‘I asked him to give you a speedy recovery so you could be on your way.’
‘Sounds like you want to get rid of me.’
Jenny’s face reddened slightly.
‘It isn’t so. I’m just sure that there must be people in London who are worried about you.’
Simon rested his chin upon his hand, thinking for a moment before replying.
‘My parents are dead, I’ve no brothers or sisters and my friends see me when I turn up.’
‘Isn’t there somebody...special?’
‘A wife or a girlfriend you mean? No I never had the time, or met the right person.’
‘Not even Emma? You spoke her name when you woke up.’
‘Emma? Oh no...Emma is...a friend, I suppose, but not in the way you mean.’
‘So...you are alone too. Alone and drifting.’
‘It sounds desperate when you put it like that.’
‘Isn’t it?’
They looked deep into each other. Jenny was losing herself in the dark compassion of Simon’s eyes. An overwhelming urge arose in her to open her heart to him, to unburden herself of the pain that tortured her. She fought it down, knowing that it would do no good and probably more harm. Simon’s face became troubled, prompting her to ask if he was feeling unwell. He excused himself with a smile, then reached behind her neck to undo the bun, releasing an onyx waterfall over Jenny’s shoulders. ‘Your hair is too lovely to keep tied up.’ She drew back, afraid of her own desire.
‘This is how I saw you the first time,’ he said. ‘I thought I was in Heaven.’ His smile only deepened the anxiety in her heart.
‘There’s no Heaven in this place Simon.’
‘Not even for believers?’
‘Belief isn’t everything.’
‘I’m not sure the Reverend would agree with that.’
‘He has to believe...whatever happens...he’s not allowed to doubt.’
‘And you?’
‘I...I’m not as strong as he is. Sometimes God seems so far away.’ Her voice was a whisper, as if she dared not admit her misgiving.
‘God lost all meaning for me when my parents died.’ Simon rubbed his forehead as the trauma so many years ago welled up in him. ‘They were driving after dining out; one of the few treats they allowed themselves. It was ironic...my father was one of the old school, a stippler for rules and regulations. “Never drink and drive” he always told me. They were driving along a tight road when another car suddenly veered onto their half. The driver was completely soused. My father swerved off the road to avoid him and smashed into a tree...they were both killed instantly.’
‘Oh Simon, I’m so sorry.’
‘After I got over the shock, the anger, I spent a long time trying to make sense of it...then realised that there was no sense to it, or anything which happens, good or bad.’
‘I wish I could say that you are wrong.’ Jenny looked down at her clasped hands as if talking to herself. ‘Open your eyes to all the wonderful things which God has given us.’
‘The gift of life you mean?’
‘Yes...it really is a gift.’
‘You don’t sound very convincing.’
‘My eyes are like yours...clouded with doubt and anger.’
‘Anger? At who, or what?’
Again an irrational urge welled up to share the terrible burden weighing upon her. ‘I...I can’t tell you now,’ she quickly dabbed away unwelcome tears from her eyes.
‘Jenny...what is it...why are you crying?’
‘It’s the cold...it’s chilly here. We’d best get back, I’m sure John will want some tea now.’

Outside the church she stood still amongst the gravestones, Simon close beside her. ‘All the people I’ve ever loved are buried her,’ she sighed. He put his arm lightly on her shoulder, feeling her tense, then relax. ‘Is this why you were crying, Jenny?’
Her body tightened again. ‘I’ve seen too much death Simon, too much pain...more than you can imagine. God has tested me...worn me out.’ She turned to him, her face wrought with anguish. ‘My faith is not a comfort, it’s a straw I clutch at...all I have Simon...if I loose it...’

Jenny walked away quickly back to the vicarage, not straight to the kitchen but to her bedroom. She sat before the large mirror of her old dressing table looking carefully into her troubled face. The young Jenny was just a memory somewhere on an old photograph. Every year a new line, she moaned to herself, prettiness receding, like the tide, only the silt remaining.
‘I was beautiful once,’ she said out loud. ‘As beautiful as I was happy.’ She brought her hands slowly to the nape of her neck the way Simon had, feeling again the sweetness of his touch, the rush of her heart and the dreadful longing within her that his hands would linger and reach up to her face. The remembrance of another caress welled up in her - how Tom Drayton, her first love, had held her and kissed so tenderly, a promise of the intimacy they would share after their marriage...and the terrible price he had paid for his love.
Suddenly something gripped her jaw, a force of immense strength. It felt like a powerful hand clutching at her, moving its grip inch by inch down to her throat, tightening so that Jenny could barely draw breath. At that same terrifying instant, an intense nausea filled her head, reaching down to her stomach, making her wretch . She gasped for dear life as the cruel fingers gripped harder, forcing her back in the chair, her heart bursting. But despite the terror which impaled her, Jenny knew she would not die, that was too much to hope for. Nor was she surprised when a diabolical presence revealed itself...a hoarse whisper touching her ear.
‘Remember...Remember.’
‘It...it’s not what...you think,’ she choked. ‘I’ll...tell him to... leave...’
‘Remember!’ The voice suddenly echoed loudly inside her head, then released her. Jenny fell forward onto her arms, heaving her lungs full, sobbing in despair.