nothing to wear,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’ I refrained from pointing out that this was inevitable so long as she persisted in spending all her clothing coupons on the children, but when I assured her that she would always look charming in her well-worn black evening frock all she said was: ‘I can’t face Lady Starmouth.’ This was an old problem. Lady Starmouth, effortlessly aristocratic, faultlessly dressed and matchlessly sophisticated, had long been a source of terror to Grace. I saw then that any further attempt at argument would be futile; I could only plan a suitable apology to offer the Ottershaws.
When I arrived home from the palace that night I was alone. Alex was staying with us, but he had lingered at the party, as befitted the guest of honour, and we had agreed earlier that we would return to the vicarage separately. As my wife was supposed to be suffering from a migraine it would have looked odd if I had failed to leave the palace early.
My key turned in the lock, and as soon as the front door opened I heard the baby howling. Seconds later Grace appeared at the top of the staircase. She was white with weariness and looked as if she had been crying. ‘I thought you were never coming home! I’m so worried, I can’t think properly – Sandy can’t keep his food down, won’t go to sleep, won’t stop crying, and I can’t bear it, can’t cope, can’t –’
‘My dearest love …’ As she staggered down the stairs into my outstretched arms and collapsed sobbing against my chest I thought of all the letters which I had written to her during our long courtship. After we had become secretly engaged I had always addressed her in my romantic correspondence by those same words. ‘My dearest love, today I finally put my schooldays behind me …’ ‘My dearest love, today I arrived in Oxford for the start of my great adventure …’ ‘My dearest love, today I finally gave up all thought of a career in the law, so I’m afraid I shall never make my fortune as a barrister …’ ‘My dearest love, I know young men aren’t supposed to marry on a curate’s salary, but if one takes into account the little income you inherited from your grandmother, I see no reason why we shouldn’t be together at last …’ How I had chased my prize of the perfect wife and what a delectable chase it had been! In fact the chase had been so delectable that I had even feared marriage might be an anti-climax, but fortunately I had soon realized there would be new prizes to chase on the far side of the altar: the perfect home, the perfect marital happiness, the perfect family life …
The baby, bawling above us in the nursery, terminated this irrelevant exercise in nostalgia. ‘My dearest love,’ I said firmly, ‘you really mustn’t let the little monster upset you like this! Go to bed at once and leave him to me.’
‘But he vomited his food – I think he might be ill –’
I finally succeeded in packing her off to bed. As she stumbled away I noticed that the hem of her nightdress had unravelled and for a second I knew I was on the brink of recalling Dido Tallent, smart as paint in her naval uniform, but I blocked that memory from my mind by invading the nursery.
Alexander was standing up in his cot and looking cross that he had been obliged to scream so hard for attention. He fell silent as soon as I entered the room.
‘I’m afraid this behaviour is quite impermissible,’ I said. I never talk down to my children. ‘Night-time is when we sleep. Noise is not allowed.’
He gazed at me in uncomprehending rapture. Here indeed was entertainment for a fourteen-month-old infant bored with his mother. I patted his springy brown hair, which reminded me of my brother Willy, stared straight into the blue eyes which were so like mine and picked him up in order to put him in a horizontal position on the sheet. He opened his mouth to howl but thought better of it. Instead he said: ‘Prayers!’ and looked so intelligent that I laughed. ‘That’s it!’ I said. ‘Prayers come before sleep.’ I felt his forehead casually but it was obvious he had no fever and I suspected he had only vomited out of a desire to discover how much fuss he could create. As he watched fascinated I recited the Lord’s Prayer for him, said firmly: ‘Good night, Sandy,’ and retired to examine the picture of Peter Rabbit which hung on the far wall. After a while I glanced back over my shoulder and when I saw he was watching me I exclaimed: ‘How quiet you are! Well done!’ At that point he smiled and allowed his eyes to close. I was still taking another long look at Peter Rabbit when I heard the welcome sound of even breathing and knew I could safely creep away.
‘The Kraken sleeps,’ I said to Grace as I joined her in our bedroom. By this time she was dry-eyed but very pale.
‘How on earth did you do it?’
‘I let him know who was the boss. Sometimes I think you’re too soft with him.’
‘I’m not soft with him! I’m just a normal loving mother, and if you’d ever had a normal loving mother yourself –’
‘My mother adored me.’
‘Well, I suppose she did in her own peculiar way, but –’
‘Grace, is this really the moment to start talking about my mother?’
‘It’s never the moment to start talking about your mother!’
‘Then why drag her into the conversation?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–’ Once more Grace dissolved into tears.
Guilt smote me. ‘My dearest love … forgive me …’ Sinking down on the bed I kissed her in despair but when the tears continued I announced: ‘I’m going to say my prayers,’ and escaped to the dressing-room. For ten seconds I concentrated on breathing deeply. Then having steadied my nerves I stripped off my clothes, stood naked in the middle of the floor and stretched myself until my muscles ached. This manœuvre also proved soothing. When I shed my clerical uniform I felt younger, more flexible, possibly more light-hearted, certainly more adventurous. Perhaps women undergo a similar psychological liberation whenever they shed their corsets.
Having donned my pyjamas I said my prayers at a brisk pace, gave the Bible a thoughtful tap, stared into space for two minutes and came to the conclusion that my next duty was to embark on a ministry of reconciliation. Accordingly I extracted the necessary item from the locked box at the back of the wardrobe and returned to the bedroom.
Grace had dried her eyes. That boded well. She had also brushed her hair. That boded well too. Grace had long straight dark hair which during the day she wore twisted into a coil on the top of her head. That was how she had worn her hair when her mother had first allowed her to abandon her pigtails, and I had never allowed her to wear it in any other way. During the 1920s she had wanted to cut her hair short but I had said: ‘Why destroy perfection?’ and the crisis had passed. Later, in the 1930s, she had wanted to curl her hair, but that idea too I had refused to countenance; I had always felt that Grace’s delicate Edwardian look was the last word in beauty and elegance. She was five foot four inches tall, a height which was perfect because even when she was wearing high-heeled shoes there was no risk of her being taller than I was. Even after bearing five children she was still remarkably slender and graceful – not quite as slender as she used to be, certainly, but then one really can’t expect one’s wife to look like a young bride after sixteen years of married life.
As soon as I returned to the bedroom she said in her calmest, most sensible voice: ‘Darling, I’m very, very sorry. How boring for you to come home to such a tiresome scene! How was the dinner-party?’
I was conscious of a relief of gargantuan proportions. My wife was being perfect again. All was well. ‘Oh, dreadfully dull,’ I said, sliding into bed and giving her a kiss. ‘I envied you missing the meal.
