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Authors: James Runcie
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dinner.’
‘Malcolm?’ Sidney asked.
‘Him?’ spluttered Keating.
‘Is there anything wrong with that?’
The eager curate was all smiles. ‘I must say, Helena, you look absolutely divine.’
‘Why, thank you, Malcolm. You always give me such a warm welcome. Where shall we go?’
‘There’s a rather nice place off Market Square. French. Just opened. I hear very good reports . . .’
‘Then lead on . . .’
‘I can’t wait. This is so exciting. They have a special chocolate soufflé. Once you start it’s almost impossible to stop. Your mouth just explodes with the sheer puddingness of it all.’
Helena giggled and put her arm through Malcolm’s. ‘We can feed each other.’
After they had gone, Keating exploded. ‘Him? What on earth . . .’
‘I know, Geordie, I know. Ours not to reason why.’
‘ I must say, Helena, you look absolutely divine . What’s he got that I haven’t? I hear very good reports . . .’
‘It’s more a case of what you’ve got.’
‘And what is that, Sidney?’
‘A wife, Geordie. Drink up.’
‘The case of the exploding mouth. The soufflé murders. It has a certain ring, I suppose.’
Sidney bicycled back to Grantchester and took Byron out for his evening constitutional across the meadows and down to the river. The fritillaries would be out soon and, even though it was far too early, he could have sworn he heard the first cuckoo of spring. Should he write to The Times and tell them? he asked himself. No. He had better things to do, not least the enjoyment of his Labrador’s comforting companionship.
Was to understand all to forgive all? he wondered. How dependent was mercy on penitence and were some sins so great that, despite any amount of contrition, they were beyond redemption? He would think and preach about this, he decided. Perhaps he could even write a book: Responsibility and the Moral Imagination . But when would he ever have the time?
He arrived home, closed the door quietly in case Anna was asleep and saw the sausages resting under tin foil, the mashed potatoes keeping warm, red cabbage by its side.
Then he stopped in the hallway and listened to Hildegard singing a last lullaby to their daughter:
‘Der Mond ist aufgegangen,
Die goldnen Sternlein prangen
Am Himmel hell und klar;
Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget,
Und aus den Wiesen steiget
Der weiße Nebel wunderbar ?’
He stayed still, while Byron hovered around his ankles, plaintively but hopelessly, waiting for his dinner.
‘Wie ist die Welt so stille,
Und in der Dämmrung Hülle
So traulich und so hold!’
Sidney translated the words to himself as he walked back into the kitchen. He waited silently beside the sink until his wife had finished singing. He wanted no other sound.
How the world stands still
In twilight’s veil
So sweet and sung . . .
‘ Als eine stille Kammer,
Wo ihr des Tages Jammer
Verschlafen und vergessen sollt. ’
As a still room,
Where the day’s misery
You will sleep off and forget.
He turned on the tap, poured himself a glass of water and thanked God amid the stillness of the night for the gift of his wife and daughter: the sanctuary of home.
Nothing to Worry About
By November 1964, Sidney and Hildegard had reached the stage of parenthood when they could leave their baby daughter overnight, in the care of others, for the first time. Sir Mark Kirby-Grey and his wife Elizabeth had invited them to a shooting party at Witchford Hall. It promised to be a formidable gathering, including Sidney’s oldest friend, Amanda Kendall, together with her new potential paramour, a rich widower on the lookout for a second wife.
Amanda had begged them to come, saying that she was concerned she had lost her touch with men and that she wanted both Sidney and Hildegard to take a good look at Henry Richmond and make sure he was up to scratch. She was all too aware of the irony that she seemed unable to deploy the
‘Malcolm?’ Sidney asked.
‘Him?’ spluttered Keating.
‘Is there anything wrong with that?’
The eager curate was all smiles. ‘I must say, Helena, you look absolutely divine.’
‘Why, thank you, Malcolm. You always give me such a warm welcome. Where shall we go?’
‘There’s a rather nice place off Market Square. French. Just opened. I hear very good reports . . .’
‘Then lead on . . .’
‘I can’t wait. This is so exciting. They have a special chocolate soufflé. Once you start it’s almost impossible to stop. Your mouth just explodes with the sheer puddingness of it all.’
Helena giggled and put her arm through Malcolm’s. ‘We can feed each other.’
After they had gone, Keating exploded. ‘Him? What on earth . . .’
‘I know, Geordie, I know. Ours not to reason why.’
‘ I must say, Helena, you look absolutely divine . What’s he got that I haven’t? I hear very good reports . . .’
‘It’s more a case of what you’ve got.’
‘And what is that, Sidney?’
‘A wife, Geordie. Drink up.’
‘The case of the exploding mouth. The soufflé murders. It has a certain ring, I suppose.’
Sidney bicycled back to Grantchester and took Byron out for his evening constitutional across the meadows and down to the river. The fritillaries would be out soon and, even though it was far too early, he could have sworn he heard the first cuckoo of spring. Should he write to The Times and tell them? he asked himself. No. He had better things to do, not least the enjoyment of his Labrador’s comforting companionship.
Was to understand all to forgive all? he wondered. How dependent was mercy on penitence and were some sins so great that, despite any amount of contrition, they were beyond redemption? He would think and preach about this, he decided. Perhaps he could even write a book: Responsibility and the Moral Imagination . But when would he ever have the time?
He arrived home, closed the door quietly in case Anna was asleep and saw the sausages resting under tin foil, the mashed potatoes keeping warm, red cabbage by its side.
Then he stopped in the hallway and listened to Hildegard singing a last lullaby to their daughter:
‘Der Mond ist aufgegangen,
Die goldnen Sternlein prangen
Am Himmel hell und klar;
Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget,
Und aus den Wiesen steiget
Der weiße Nebel wunderbar ?’
He stayed still, while Byron hovered around his ankles, plaintively but hopelessly, waiting for his dinner.
‘Wie ist die Welt so stille,
Und in der Dämmrung Hülle
So traulich und so hold!’
Sidney translated the words to himself as he walked back into the kitchen. He waited silently beside the sink until his wife had finished singing. He wanted no other sound.
How the world stands still
In twilight’s veil
So sweet and sung . . .
‘ Als eine stille Kammer,
Wo ihr des Tages Jammer
Verschlafen und vergessen sollt. ’
As a still room,
Where the day’s misery
You will sleep off and forget.
He turned on the tap, poured himself a glass of water and thanked God amid the stillness of the night for the gift of his wife and daughter: the sanctuary of home.
Nothing to Worry About
By November 1964, Sidney and Hildegard had reached the stage of parenthood when they could leave their baby daughter overnight, in the care of others, for the first time. Sir Mark Kirby-Grey and his wife Elizabeth had invited them to a shooting party at Witchford Hall. It promised to be a formidable gathering, including Sidney’s oldest friend, Amanda Kendall, together with her new potential paramour, a rich widower on the lookout for a second wife.
Amanda had begged them to come, saying that she was concerned she had lost her touch with men and that she wanted both Sidney and Hildegard to take a good look at Henry Richmond and make sure he was up to scratch. She was all too aware of the irony that she seemed unable to deploy the
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