The Benefits of Passion (31 page)

CHAPTER 29

‘I've got to talk to the Bishop,' said Isabella, as the door opened.

Mrs Hibbert had just got in from a hard day at the office. She was usually a generous-spirited woman, but found herself giving in to a little pettiness at the sight of her least favourite clergy wife on the doorstep.

‘I'm afraid you'll have to make an appointment like everyone else.'

‘Is he in?' demanded Isabella, stepping forward.

Mrs Hibbert, holding firmly on to the edge of the door, was forced to admit that he was. ‘But he's seeing someone. Perhaps I can take a message?'

‘Yes. Tell him from me he's a waste of fucking space. He's supposed to be pastor to the pastors, but he leaves my husband to –'

‘Excuse
me
,' cut in Mrs Hibbert, two angry spots appearing on her cheeks. ‘I happen to know my husband phoned Barney only last week to see how things were going. Barney assured him everything was fine.'

All the fight went out of Isabella. Tears gathered in her eyes.

Damn, thought Mrs Hibbert. She foresaw a messy pastoral session when all she wanted was to kick off her shoes and curl up with the paper. She sighed. ‘I take it that's not true?'

Isabella shook her head.

Mrs Hibbert's better nature impulsively took over. She held out her arms and Isabella plunged into them sobbing. Well, at least she'd spared her husband the ordeal of having an attractive young woman weeping into his purple shirt. She led Isabella to the kitchen and made her some tea. ‘I think you'd better tell me about it, my dear.'

So Isabella did – Barney's workload, the rows, his stubbornness, the awful nightclub incident. ‘He won't forgive me,' she sobbed. ‘He won't talk to me even. It's over between us. I can't take any more.'

Mrs Hibbert liked Barney and was inclined to see it from his angle. ‘How long have you been married?'

‘A year.'

Mrs Hibbert patted Isabella's hand. ‘Isn't it a wee bit soon to be saying it's all over?' Isabella bawled. ‘I know it's hell, my dear, but nobody said marriage was easy. Have you tried counselling?'

‘He won't.'

‘You've suggested it?'

Isabella was silent.

Mrs Hibbert wanted to shake her.‘“For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer” – they're pretty serious vows. God doesn't expect us to be perfect, but he does ask us all to try.'

‘But does he expect me to stay with a man who beats me up?' burst out Isabella.

Oh, no, thought the Bishop's wife. Her heart sank. Not that. Not Barney. She was a solicitor and had encountered many women whose nice, intelligent husbands put them in hospital. She took Isabella's hand. ‘I'm so sorry,' she said. ‘You poor child. No, I don't think God expects that.'

‘But I love him so much!' cried Isabella. ‘If only I could get him to talk or understand, then maybe he'd change. Maybe . . .'

The Bishop's wife leant back with a sigh. She knew she should say, Get out now while you've still got a shred of confidence and self-esteem. He won't change. They never do. Spare yourself years of hell . . . She shook a mental fist at God. Why don't you
do
something? she wanted to shout. Her eye fell on a crucifix above the cooker and she heard her husband's voice reminding her sternly that God already had. Then why doesn't it make a difference? There should be a way, she thought. If your death and our faith mean anything at all, there should be a way. And as she stared, a plan began to form in her mind.

*

‘Barney,' said Isabella, several evenings later, ‘I think we should talk.'

His jaw tightened. ‘As far as I'm concerned, it's forgotten.'

She steeled herself. ‘It isn't, though. Don't you think marriage guidance –'

‘No!'

Her courage wavered, but she forced herself on to the next tactic. ‘Um, someone rang. A woman.'

He reached at once for his Filofax. ‘Yes?'

‘She wants to talk to you. She's thinking of leaving her violent husband.'

‘What's her address?' he asked, unsuspecting, biro poised.

‘She . . . she says she'll meet you in the church this evening. At seven thirty.'

He glanced at his watch. ‘That's now! Why didn't you say earlier?'

‘Sorry.'

‘What's her name?' he asked, slipping in his dog-collar.

‘I forgot to ask.'

He tutted in exasperation and hurried off.

She waited ten eternal minutes, then followed, heart pounding, solicitor's letter in hand.

The church door creaked as she let herself in. He was up near the chancel and turned expectantly at the noise. Her heels clipped as she walked up the aisle to where he stood waiting.

‘She hasn't come,' he said.

‘Yes, she has.' She handed him the letter.

‘What's this?' He turned it over, puzzled, then saw his name and opened it. ‘What . . .' His face drained of colour.

Tu es homo.

He ran his hand through his curls, tried to laugh in disbelief. ‘. . .
inform you of my client's intention to file for legal separation . . .
' She knew what he was reading and her tears spilled over.

‘You can't do this!' He took a step towards her and she cringed back. He stared in shock at her terror. ‘Bella! You can't! Why didn't you tell me you felt like this?'

‘I tried!'

‘Look, we can work things out. Don't do this to me! I know it's been tough, but things will change.'

Her sobs echoed in the empty church. ‘It's over, Barney. Unless you talk things through, it's over.'

‘I'll talk. Dear God, I'll do anything! This is terrible!'

‘You'll come to counselling sessions with me?'

He struggled visibly. ‘Yes. OK.' He stared down at the letter as though he might cry. He's nothing but a big baby, she thought wearily, as she dried her eyes. There was a long, long silence. He cleared his throat. ‘Just tell me he's got the tiniest little willy you've ever seen.'

She could have laughed in relief. ‘I'm sure he has.'

‘You mean you were too drunk to notice?'

‘I mean I've no idea. We didn't do it, remember?'

His eyes went round.

‘Barney, I told you at the time we didn't!'

‘Oh, God!' He wheeled round and took some hurried steps towards the altar.

‘Is this what all this has been about?' she shouted at his trembling back. ‘Is it?'

He turned to her, hands out, imploring as she strode up to him. ‘Bella, please . . .'

‘You useless stupid
bastard
!' She punched him on the nose with all her might. Blood dropped and flowered on his blue clerical shirt. He staggered. The altar rails caught him behind the knees and he crashed backwards into the chancel. Silence. Isabella registered dimly that his shoes needed resoling, then ran from the church.

She reached the house panting, rushed upstairs and grabbed a suitcase. She flung it on the bed and began tossing clothes into it. A moment later Barney burst into the room, wild and bloodstained.

‘Bella, I'm sorry!'

‘You're too late!' she screamed. ‘I'm leaving.'

He swept the suitcase off the bed and pulled her into his arms. ‘I'm sorry. Don't leave me. Please don't leave me!' He tumbled her on to the bed. ‘I'm nothing without you.'

‘Get off, you bastard!' She wrestled, but it was useless. ‘You always do this!' she shouted. ‘You think sex is a bloody aspirin!'

He was tugging her clothes off, weeping, begging with her not to leave him.

‘Oh, all right. All
right
, you stupid, fat, useless . . . useless . . .' she raged as he entered her.

His tears dropped on to her face. He came with a shuddering cry. She pushed him away at once and got up.

‘Where are you going?' he asked, clutching at her.

‘For a pee, you twat.' She locked herself in the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath wondering what to do. I hate him! He rapes me, he beats me up! Then it struck her. He said sorry. He
actually said sorry
. Bloody hell. For once he'd admitted he was wrong. What's more, he'd cried. He'd said he needed her. Surely this was a basis for a new start?

She unlocked the door. He was waiting on the landing as if to block off her escape. She sighed. ‘You'd better soak that shirt in cold water.' He stripped it off. She went and lay down on the bed.

A moment later he joined her. ‘Bella, will you forgive me?'

Her mind seethed. Why the hell should I? You wouldn't forgive me, you bastard. But God seemed to be waiting, hanging on her answer. ‘Oh, all right,' she snapped.

‘What was I supposed to think?' he pleaded. ‘You came back drunk with no knickers on.'

‘I went
out
with no knickers on,' she said. ‘Haven't you heard of the visible pantie line? Get that wheedling look off your face.'

‘So long as you haven't seen him again . . .'

Isabella blushed. The little git had taken to waiting in his sports car outside the shop, trying to give her a lift home. She'd been dreading Barney finding out.

‘For God's sake, Isabella, tell me,' he begged. She saw all his fears leaping back.

‘He hangs around wanting to drive me back from work,' she admitted.

‘
Does
he. Right.'

‘No!' she cried in alarm. ‘Barney, if you lay a finger on him you won't see me for dust.'

He sat scowling. ‘What sort of car has he got?'

She giggled. ‘A red sports car. Like the one you sold.'

‘Hah!'

The following evening Isabella glanced out of the shop window. The flash car was outside again. She had just turned to serve a customer when there was a loud bang and the sound of shattering glass. She whipped round again. The sports car was ten yards further up the road concertina-ed into a lamp post with another car in its rear. Isabella covered her face in despair.

‘I can't seem to see the car anywhere,' remarked Isabella casually when she got in.

‘Ah. Yes. I was coming to collect you from work,' explained Barney, ‘only someone was parked outside the shop on double yellow lines and I went straight into the back of him. Unfortunately.'

She bit her lips.

‘Silly me,' he added.

You dreadful, dreadful man, she thought, shaking her head at him.

The Bishop descended upon Barney like the Day of Judgement and ordered him to take two weeks' holiday. Barney unwisely demurred.

‘Listen, matey,' said the Bishop. ‘Me – big powerful diocesan bishop. You – insignificant little junior curate. Do as you're bloody told, or I'll suspend your licence and make sure you never work in the Church of England again.'

Mrs Hibbert stared when her husband related this. ‘You can't do that, can you?'

‘Oh, you'd be amazed what we bishops get up to,' he replied airily.

And so Barney and Isabella spent two weeks in bed in a cottage in the middle of nowhere.

‘They've grown,' said Barney, cupping her breasts in his hands.

‘Are you calling me fat?' she demanded.

‘I'm calling you luscious,' he replied, running his tongue down her cleavage.

Damn, she thought. If she was honest, her clothes were a bit tight at the moment. She'd probably been comfort-eating during those horrible weeks. Up till now she'd always been able to eat like a pig and stay slim. I'll start dieting when we're back from holiday, she promised herself.

It was not as easy as she thought. She tried hard, but the weight wouldn't shift. If anything it seemed to be creeping up. But what the hell. She'd probably been too skinny before. I'm a woman, not a girl, for God's sake. Besides, life was good. Barney went with her to their counselling sessions like a good boy. Another little pep talk from the Bishop persuaded him not to work quite so hard. And the new vicar was arriving in another month.

Yes, life was good. Isabella's natural optimism had bounded back. She lay in bed one Saturday morning, languidly, running her hands across herself and thinking of Barney, who had just made love to her before sprinting off to church to say Morning Prayer. Suddenly her hand stopped. Dear God! What was that lump? Her heart pounded horribly. I've got cancer of the stomach! I'm going to die!

An hour later she was at the doctor's for an emergency appointment.

The doctor was young and a member of Barney's congregation. ‘What can I do for you, Isabella?' she asked.

‘I've found a lump in my stomach,' burst out Isabella.

‘Well, hop on to the couch and I'll have a look.'

Isabella obeyed.

The doctor's hands began to feel around gently.

‘Have you been putting on weight?' she asked.

Isabella nodded miserably.

‘Noticed any changes in your breasts?'

‘Barney says they've grown.'

‘What about your periods?'

‘Oh, all over the place. I'm hopeless at keeping track.'

The doctor got out a little ear trumpet and listened to Isabella's stomach.

‘It's a growth of some kind, isn't it?' blurted Isabella.

The doctor straightened up and smiled. ‘Yes. We normally refer to it as a baby, though.'

‘
What?
' Isabella sat bolt upright. ‘You're kidding!'

‘No. I can hear the foetal heartbeat. I'd say you're about five months pregnant. Congratulations.'

‘But I'm on the pill!' Her hand flew to her mouth and she giggled. ‘Five months? Fu – Sorry.
Five months?
' She leapt down off the couch and ran to the door.

‘Um, wait,' called the doctor. ‘We've got some forms to fill in . . .'

‘I'll make another appointment,' said Isabella. ‘I've got to tell Barney.'