Perhaps this was what marriage was about? Not melting movie kisses or silk nighties, but something more real and meaningful; shared endeavour, joint goals. Maybe when Reverend Stokes had finally gone they could laugh about the teacup puddings and the fact that he thought her name was Sheila, and tonight the space in the bed between them wouldn’t seem like such an arctic wasteland.
Taking a deep breath she carried the coffee through to the sitting room, where Reverend Stokes was now ensconced in the most comfortable chair nearest the fire. Stella hoped that didn’t mean he would be tempted to stay longer. Surely he must be getting bored with hearing about the minutiae of running St Crispin’s by now?
‘Of course, there’s no evensong service now, because of the blackout,’ Charles was saying, ‘but the Sunday morning service is always well attended. People like the sermons to be short but uplifting.’
Stella settled into the corner of the sofa and sipped her coffee. Charles had struggled with ‘uplifting’ lately, often staying up into the early hours of Sunday morning to produce a sermon that struck the right note. At least that’s what he told her he was doing. On those nights he came quietly up the stairs and passed her door on his way to the box room at the end of the landing and, lying beneath the smooth sheets of their marriage bed, she wondered whether avoiding her was also part of his plan.
After what seemed like an eternity, Reverend Stokes hauled himself creakily from the depths of his chair and announced that he must be on his way. As Charles went in search of his coat the Reverend’s damp eyes rested on Stella.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening and a splendid supper, my dear. The first of many, I hope.’
‘Oh . . . yes, I do hope so,’ Stella stammered. Funny how she seemed to lie far more often now she was a vicar’s wife than she ever had before. ‘You’re very welcome any time.’
Charles returned, winding a scarf around his own neck too. He glanced uneasily at Stella before holding out the other man’s coat. ‘Here, Ernest. I’ll walk you down to the bus stop. Make sure you don’t get lost in the blackout.’
She was washing the dishes in the kitchen when he came back. She heard the front door shut and glanced at the clock above the cooker. Almost nine; if she was quick she could finish clearing up in time to listen to the news on the wireless with him. Sometimes she thought she’d rather not know about the misery unfolding across the world but she knew that Charles liked to stay informed of all the latest developments in the war, with so many boys in the parish and now Peter Underwood out there on active service. It seemed a small thing to do to listen to it with him. She ran water into the enamel casserole dish in which she’d cooked the beef; it would be best left to soak overnight.
‘Thank you.’
She jumped as Charles’s voice broke the sudden silence when the tap was turned off. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her. Something about his expression made her heart lurch slightly.
‘It’s all right . . . At least, I hope it was. There wasn’t much food.’
‘My fault.’ He came forward, pushing the lock of hair back from his forehead in a gesture she had come to recognize as nervousness. ‘I should have given you more notice.’
He unhooked the tea towel and stood, holding it awkwardly as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. ‘I need to talk to you. There’s something else I should have given you more notice about.’
Stella’s heart had begun to beat very hard; a warning drum, although against what danger she couldn’t imagine. The word ‘divorce’ flashed into her head, but she instantly dismissed it. Charles would never countenance breaking asunder what God had put together.
‘Sit down.’
She sat obediently, thinking of the fire burning in the other room – all that precious fuel – and the wireless, and the news. He remained
Taking a deep breath she carried the coffee through to the sitting room, where Reverend Stokes was now ensconced in the most comfortable chair nearest the fire. Stella hoped that didn’t mean he would be tempted to stay longer. Surely he must be getting bored with hearing about the minutiae of running St Crispin’s by now?
‘Of course, there’s no evensong service now, because of the blackout,’ Charles was saying, ‘but the Sunday morning service is always well attended. People like the sermons to be short but uplifting.’
Stella settled into the corner of the sofa and sipped her coffee. Charles had struggled with ‘uplifting’ lately, often staying up into the early hours of Sunday morning to produce a sermon that struck the right note. At least that’s what he told her he was doing. On those nights he came quietly up the stairs and passed her door on his way to the box room at the end of the landing and, lying beneath the smooth sheets of their marriage bed, she wondered whether avoiding her was also part of his plan.
After what seemed like an eternity, Reverend Stokes hauled himself creakily from the depths of his chair and announced that he must be on his way. As Charles went in search of his coat the Reverend’s damp eyes rested on Stella.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening and a splendid supper, my dear. The first of many, I hope.’
‘Oh . . . yes, I do hope so,’ Stella stammered. Funny how she seemed to lie far more often now she was a vicar’s wife than she ever had before. ‘You’re very welcome any time.’
Charles returned, winding a scarf around his own neck too. He glanced uneasily at Stella before holding out the other man’s coat. ‘Here, Ernest. I’ll walk you down to the bus stop. Make sure you don’t get lost in the blackout.’
She was washing the dishes in the kitchen when he came back. She heard the front door shut and glanced at the clock above the cooker. Almost nine; if she was quick she could finish clearing up in time to listen to the news on the wireless with him. Sometimes she thought she’d rather not know about the misery unfolding across the world but she knew that Charles liked to stay informed of all the latest developments in the war, with so many boys in the parish and now Peter Underwood out there on active service. It seemed a small thing to do to listen to it with him. She ran water into the enamel casserole dish in which she’d cooked the beef; it would be best left to soak overnight.
‘Thank you.’
She jumped as Charles’s voice broke the sudden silence when the tap was turned off. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her. Something about his expression made her heart lurch slightly.
‘It’s all right . . . At least, I hope it was. There wasn’t much food.’
‘My fault.’ He came forward, pushing the lock of hair back from his forehead in a gesture she had come to recognize as nervousness. ‘I should have given you more notice.’
He unhooked the tea towel and stood, holding it awkwardly as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. ‘I need to talk to you. There’s something else I should have given you more notice about.’
Stella’s heart had begun to beat very hard; a warning drum, although against what danger she couldn’t imagine. The word ‘divorce’ flashed into her head, but she instantly dismissed it. Charles would never countenance breaking asunder what God had put together.
‘Sit down.’
She sat obediently, thinking of the fire burning in the other room – all that precious fuel – and the wireless, and the news. He remained
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