yourself could lead her and keep her calm.’
His entire household blinked at the thought of Russell Checkland being used as a force for calm.
Blissfully unaware, the vicar continued. ‘She stands still while the carols are sung and Baby Jesus laid in the manger. The play ends with them all filing out through the vestry on their way to Egypt, to escape the clutches of wicked King Herod.’
‘Can’t see a problem with any of that,’ said Russell cheerfully, hoovering up the last slice of cake.
‘You’ll be in costume, of course.’
‘Will I?’ he said, suddenly much less cheerful.
‘Just a tunic and sandals.’
‘On Christmas Eve? In the church?’
‘It’s only for forty … minutes,’ I said, ‘and we can warm you up in the … bar … afterwards.’
Mr Wivenhoe, having achieved his aim (as he frequently did in his own, mild-mannered, understated way) took his leave. Russell was already rummaging through his pockets, pulling out his phone.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Andrew, of course. Why should I suffer alone? … Andrew! How’s it going? … Russell … Your cousin, Russell. Stop pissing about … No, of course I don’t want anything … Jenny asked me to call. She doesn’t like to think of you rattling around alone in that enormous four and a half room flat of yours, crying inside for the woman you love … No, you don’t have to be brave for me … Beer and the Big Match tonight are no substitute for having one’s friends and family around one … No, really, they’re not. Look, why don’t you throw a few things in a bag and come and stay for a few days. Mrs Crisp is doing her world-famous sock soup and Jenny’s not due for weeks yet … No, of course I don’t want anything. How could you think that? Just a simple, good-hearted gesture of concern from one cousin to another … Great. See you tonight.’
He snapped off his phone. ‘Sorted.’
Andrew arrived late that afternoon. I saw his headlights flash across the yard as he pulled in and went out to greet him.
‘Jenny!’
Andrew is Russell’s cousin. There’s very little resemblance between them. Andrew is tall and dark, good-looking in a conventional way. Russell is tall as well, but bonier and his dark red hair consistently refuses to enter into any sort of relationship with hair gel.
I smiled at him. ‘Andrew, how are you?’
‘Absolutely fine despite everything Russell says. Why on earth am I here? What’s the idiot playing at now?’
These were not deep waters in which I wished to swim.
‘No idea.’
He looked down at me. ‘Is his painting not going so well?’
I shook my head. Russell’s once flourishing career as an artist had crashed and burned a few years ago. His attempts to recapture his early success were meeting with mixed results and I could see his frustration growing. Personally, I thought he was making a mistake trying to recapture his original style. He wasn’t the same person now that he was then. Deep down, I think he knew this, but moving on was a big step into the unknown and despite his reputation for going at everything like a bull at a gate, he was hesitating.
With some difficulty, I said, ‘I worry …’
‘What? What do you worry about?’
‘I worry that these … days, he’s so … crushed by everything … family and responsibility … that he can’t paint any more. That he’s lost that unconventional spark … that made his work so special.’
He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Russ? What, our Russ? Crushed by responsibility? I don’t think so, Jenny.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘I just …’
‘He’s had things too easy. It won’t do him the slightest harm to have to work for something for a change. In fact, it will do him good.’ He put his arm around me. ‘Don’t worry, Jenny. Everything will be fine. Tanya says so and who are we to argue?’
I remembered the traumatic first year of my marriage to Russell. Andrew and
His entire household blinked at the thought of Russell Checkland being used as a force for calm.
Blissfully unaware, the vicar continued. ‘She stands still while the carols are sung and Baby Jesus laid in the manger. The play ends with them all filing out through the vestry on their way to Egypt, to escape the clutches of wicked King Herod.’
‘Can’t see a problem with any of that,’ said Russell cheerfully, hoovering up the last slice of cake.
‘You’ll be in costume, of course.’
‘Will I?’ he said, suddenly much less cheerful.
‘Just a tunic and sandals.’
‘On Christmas Eve? In the church?’
‘It’s only for forty … minutes,’ I said, ‘and we can warm you up in the … bar … afterwards.’
Mr Wivenhoe, having achieved his aim (as he frequently did in his own, mild-mannered, understated way) took his leave. Russell was already rummaging through his pockets, pulling out his phone.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Andrew, of course. Why should I suffer alone? … Andrew! How’s it going? … Russell … Your cousin, Russell. Stop pissing about … No, of course I don’t want anything … Jenny asked me to call. She doesn’t like to think of you rattling around alone in that enormous four and a half room flat of yours, crying inside for the woman you love … No, you don’t have to be brave for me … Beer and the Big Match tonight are no substitute for having one’s friends and family around one … No, really, they’re not. Look, why don’t you throw a few things in a bag and come and stay for a few days. Mrs Crisp is doing her world-famous sock soup and Jenny’s not due for weeks yet … No, of course I don’t want anything. How could you think that? Just a simple, good-hearted gesture of concern from one cousin to another … Great. See you tonight.’
He snapped off his phone. ‘Sorted.’
Andrew arrived late that afternoon. I saw his headlights flash across the yard as he pulled in and went out to greet him.
‘Jenny!’
Andrew is Russell’s cousin. There’s very little resemblance between them. Andrew is tall and dark, good-looking in a conventional way. Russell is tall as well, but bonier and his dark red hair consistently refuses to enter into any sort of relationship with hair gel.
I smiled at him. ‘Andrew, how are you?’
‘Absolutely fine despite everything Russell says. Why on earth am I here? What’s the idiot playing at now?’
These were not deep waters in which I wished to swim.
‘No idea.’
He looked down at me. ‘Is his painting not going so well?’
I shook my head. Russell’s once flourishing career as an artist had crashed and burned a few years ago. His attempts to recapture his early success were meeting with mixed results and I could see his frustration growing. Personally, I thought he was making a mistake trying to recapture his original style. He wasn’t the same person now that he was then. Deep down, I think he knew this, but moving on was a big step into the unknown and despite his reputation for going at everything like a bull at a gate, he was hesitating.
With some difficulty, I said, ‘I worry …’
‘What? What do you worry about?’
‘I worry that these … days, he’s so … crushed by everything … family and responsibility … that he can’t paint any more. That he’s lost that unconventional spark … that made his work so special.’
He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Russ? What, our Russ? Crushed by responsibility? I don’t think so, Jenny.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘I just …’
‘He’s had things too easy. It won’t do him the slightest harm to have to work for something for a change. In fact, it will do him good.’ He put his arm around me. ‘Don’t worry, Jenny. Everything will be fine. Tanya says so and who are we to argue?’
I remembered the traumatic first year of my marriage to Russell. Andrew and
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