Newcastle
James sat out of the way in a back pew while Tilly bustled around with Mrs Marshall, the vicar’s wife, arranging flowers for the Sunday service. Autumn light filtered in through high stained-glass windows, throwing coloured light on to the cold flagstones. Adela and Sam would have boarded their ship back to India by now. They would be sailing past Malta, towards Egypt and the Suez Canal. By next week they would be at Aden and turning east across the Arabian Sea . . .
James felt his stomach clench with longing and he forced his thoughts back to the chilly church. Tilly had been surprised at his suggestion he accompany her and then a little alarmed that he wanted to attend the service with her the following day too.
‘Are you sure?’ she’d questioned.
‘Yes,’ James had said with more conviction than he’d felt. ‘I think it’s time I did more with you, Tilly. Perhaps meet some of your friends.’
What he couldn’t bring himself to tell her was that he was increasingly desperate to fill up the void inside him that leaving India had created. Adela’s departure – the thought of her and Sam returning to Belgooree – had only worsened his feelings of emptiness and uselessness.
Tilly had given him a baffled smile and nodded in agreement. So here he was, sitting in the shadows waiting to be called upon to do something useful, such as lift heavy vases or move tables. The women, though, appeared to be managing without him. That’s why his mind kept drifting back to Adela and Sam and their journey to India.
His thoughts slid to Belgooree and Clarrie. Why was it that he longed to be with Clarrie and her family more than with his own? Clarrie and Harry were more real to him – he could imagine what they were doing and thinking at every stage of the day – whereas his own wife and children were so distant with him, their former closeness ruptured by the long years apart. Except for Libby. Oh, Libby: how he missed her too!
James stood up. It wasn’t healthy to think of India. It was safer to shut the past from his mind as best he could. The more he forced himself to do things with Tilly, the less he would be plagued by his guilt over Aidan Dunlop and the traumatic events of his early life on the Oxford plantation. Since unburdening himself to his wife, the nightmares had lessened a little – he was grateful to her for that – but they hadn’t vanished completely.
‘Can I do anything to help?’ he called out. His voice echoed off the pillars.
Tilly looked round startled as if she’d forgotten he was there.
‘I don’t think so, dear,’ she said.
‘Well, perhaps you could take out the dead flowers and put them on the compost heap?’ Mrs Marshall suggested.
‘Of course,’ James agreed, crossing quickly to the vestry where he’d seen them taking the wilting flowers.
He took his time outside, spinning out the task, hoping Tilly would be ready to go home soon. Perhaps they could take Fluff for a walk in the dene together before it got dark. As he re-entered the church, he heard music, hymn tunes. The organist must be practising for the next day. James hovered in the nave listening while Tilly readjusted a display of chrysanthemums. There was a break in the playing and then the church was filling with a different sound – a slow dignified air – that struck James as deeply familiar.
The music began to gather momentum and the notes sored into the air, resonating in the dark space above. James felt his chest tighten. Pachelbel. It had been played at their wedding. He turned towards Tilly. She had stopped fussing over the flowers and was looking round. They caught each other’s look. James felt his vision blur. He groped for a nearby pew. A sob rose up from the pit of his stomach. Tilly came rushing towards him.
‘James, don’t upset yourself!’
It was too late. Abruptly, James began to howl in distress, tears coursing down his craggy face. He couldn’t understand why but there was no way of stopping. Tilly steered him past an astonished Mrs Marshall.
‘Is there anything I can . . . ?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you,’ said Tilly. ‘He needs fresh air, that’s all.’
James would have laughed at his wife’s robust reply if he hadn’t been weeping so helplessly. He felt distress and shame in equal measure.
Tilly guided him towards the back wall of the surrounding churchyard.
‘Sit, darling,’ she said, coaxing him on to a damp weather-beaten bench.
James did as he was told. Finally, after several more minutes of sobbing and blowing his nose into a handkerchief, he regained control of his emotions.
‘I’m so s-sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I don’t know what came over me. The music . . .’
‘James,’ Tilly said gently. ‘This isn’t about the music, is it? You’ve never got sentimental over Pachelbel before.’
‘It made me think of our wedding,’ said James, ‘of how happy we used to be.’
‘Yes.’ Tilly sighed. ‘I think we were once, weren’t we?’ She took his hand and held it between her plump ones. ‘The music might have opened the floodgates, James, but I don’t think you were crying for us. Why won’t you consider seeing a doctor? I know Jamie worries about you—’
‘No! I couldn’t possibly burden our son with my problems,’ James said.
‘Johnny then?’ Tilly suggested. ‘Couldn’t you speak to him? He understands about India. Tell him what you told me about the Danny Dunlop affair. He might be able to treat you.’
‘Treat me?’ James said, aghast. ‘I don’t need treating.’
‘Well, I think you do,’ said Tilly more brusquely.
‘I just have to be a man and bear it,’ James said, his jaw tightening. ‘And I really don’t want to talk to my brother-in-law about it – much as I like Johnny. I shouldn’t have burdened you with it all either.’
‘But you have done,’ Tilly pointed out. ‘And I’m glad you did. I want to help you have peace of mind but I’m no expert. Praying for you doesn’t seem to have helped.’
James was touched by her concern. He knew she no longer loved him as she had once done. The moment they had looked at each other in the church as the music overwhelmed him, he had known it for sure. And the desolation he had felt told him that he no longer loved his wife. Yet she was prepared to put up with him and try to help him recover from his dark thoughts.
‘It’s just these ghastly dreams,’ he confided.
She gripped his hand. ‘Then do something about them,’ she urged.
‘What can I possibly do?’ he asked in bewilderment.
Tilly glanced away. He knew she was turning something over in her mind but dreaded what it might be. He waited for her to speak. After a long pause, she turned back and held his look.
‘If you refuse to go and see a doctor,’ said Tilly, ‘then I only see one other option.’
James tried to unclench his jaw. ‘What’s that?’
‘You have to confess to Danny Dunlop all that you know. Until you do,’ said Tilly, her hazel eyes filling with pity, ‘you will never be rid of your nightmares.’