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  ‘Hello,’ beamed Simon whitely. ‘Congratulations, Councillor!’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ This time Rita almost managed not to sound coy.

  Simon beamed at the whole group: Neville and Liz and Rita and Corinna and … Ted!

  ‘Ted!’ he said.

  ‘I think you’ve met my fiancée, Corinna,’ said Ted.

  ‘Yes, we’ve … er … fiancée? Good God!’ Simon gulped. ‘I mean, “Good God is certainly giving us something to celebrate today!” Congratulations!’

  Simon was less than overjoyed to see, approaching at a fast lick, and smiling broadly, Andrew Denton, Neville’s nephew, who was in banking in Leeds and not doing as well as had been hoped. Simon was even less overjoyed to see, approaching at a slower lick, Andrew’s wife Judy, whom he had once shown round a house, and then round his flat, and then round his bedroom, and then round his body. He was even less overjoyed to see Judy’s stomach. From what Andrew had said at his mother’s wedding to Neville, Simon was certain that what was in there was the result of the one and only indiscretion in his unintentionally celibate young life.

  ‘Fiancée!’ said Andrew cheerfully. ‘I heard that! Congratulations! Hello, all. Mrs Simcock! I heard! Congratulations!’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Simon tried hard to look at something other than Judy’s stomach.

  ‘Quite a warm day,’ said Andrew Denton. ‘We won’t need heating. That’s lucky.’

  There was a mystified pause.

  ‘Because we don’t want it to be a baptism of fire,’ he explained. ‘Joke,’ he added.

  ‘You remember my nephew do you, Simon?’ said Neville.

  Curls of grey cloud swirled in from the West. The sun fought feebly, and was gone. The lid came down again. The day pulsed with moist pressure. The greyness, to which they had earlier been reconciled, was terrible now.

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘Yes, I … er … I … er … yes.’

  ‘And you know my wife Judy?’ said Andrew. ‘Heavily pregnant, but still lovely.’

  ‘Yes, I … er … yes, I … I showed her round a … er … a … er …’ Simon was a rabbit frozen before life’s full beam.

  ‘House,’ said Judy. ‘It was a house, Simon.’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. A house.’

  ‘And here’s the godmother, even more pregnant, but also still lovely,’ said Liz.

  Jenny was wheeling her son, Thomas, in an altogether more mundane pram. She did indeed look fairly enormous, being due any day now.

  ‘Hello, everybody,’ she said. ‘Congratulations, Rita. Fantastic! Fantastic! Ted!’

  ‘You know my fiancée, don’t you?’ said Ted.

  ‘Fiancée? Fantastic.’ Jenny tried to invest this ‘fantastic’ with the enthusiasm she had shown in her previous ones. It was a gallant failure. ‘Well … congratulations. What a happy day.’

  ‘Where’s Paul?’ said Rita nervously.

  ‘We had a terrible row this morning, and he’s refusing to speak to me, and he wouldn’t come. Oh Lord. I was going to say he has this mystery virus, but I couldn’t lie, but I should have lied, I shouldn’t have spoilt things, not today.’

  The suave Doctor Spreckley glared at the Christening party, as if they had no right to be there. There were only thirty-six people gathered round the fifteenth-century font, and he had fifty-eight Belgians in tow. Doctor Spreckley, precise and delicate wielder of instruments at the General and, more frequently, the Nuffield, had thrown himself enthusiastically into the town’s twinning with Namur. He had visited that charming city twice and on each occasion had managed to wield his instrument precisely, if not delicately. Since his wife had left him, because of his unfaithfulness, he had thought of very little except sex and food, and nowhere did that combination seem more promising than in gallant little Belgium. These last few months had seen an incomprehensible falling-off of these appetites, and today he was in a thoroughly sour temper. He no longer felt attracted to his physiotherapist from Liège. His roast beef dinner at the Grand Universal Hotel had been vile – goodness knew what the Belgians must have thought. He was damned if he would deny them a tour of the church just because of some blasted service.

  And so, the new young vicar took that small gathering through the service of baptism accompanied by a loud echoing whispered commentary, in vile French, on the charms of his church, and by the tip-toeing of fifty-eight Belgians, many of whom may have been gallant, but very few of whom were little.

  The three godparents stood at the front of the gathering, with Jenny between Simon and Andrew. She was holding Thomas, and she was terrified that he would cry.

  The congregation recited along with the vicar, temporarily drowning Doctor Spreckley.

  ‘Heavenly Father, in your love you have called us to know you, led us to trust you …’

  Simon did something he hadn’t done since boarding school. He prayed, silently.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ he said, ‘I expect you know this, well you know everything, but in case you were looking the other way or something … I mean, you must sometimes, you’re only human, well no, you’re not … anyway, the thing is, the only time I’ve ever … you know … it was with the wife of the other godfather. She’s … you know … and I think it’s very probably mine. I’m very sorry and I’ll never … you know … again with anybody ever, but what am I to do? I should never have agreed to take on the moral welfare of this child. Should I back out now? Help me.’

  He finished just in time to hear the vicar say, ‘Therefore I ask these questions which you must answer for yourselves and for this child. Do you turn to Christ?’ And the parents and Godparents responded, ‘I turn to Christ.’

  What should he say? ‘Sorry, vicar. No can do’?

  ‘I turn to Christ,’ he said.

  ‘Do you repent of your sins?’

  This time Simon joined the others. ‘I repent of my sins,’ he said, so intensely that Jenny turned to look at him.

  ‘Do you renounce evil?’

  ‘I renounce evil.’ Andrew Denton was also surprised by Simon’s intensity.

  ‘We will now sing …’ The vicar paused to glare at the Belgians. ‘… hymn number one hundred and sixteen, omitting verses four and five.’

  The dimly-lit House of God thundered to the uninspired playing of Leslie Horton, water-bailiff and organist, who hated to be called Les.

  ‘All things bright and beautiful,

  All creatures great and small,’ sang the congregation.

  Rita glanced at Rodney. He looked rough. ‘Rodney’s on his own again,’ she thought. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Each little flower that opens

  Each little bird that sings.’

  The Belgians began to file out of the church. They had tickets for the rugby league match against Featherstone Rovers.

  Jenny, oblivious of everyone, including the Belgians, told herself, ‘Concentrate on these young lives. Forget your own troubles. Pretend you believe, and pray.’

  ‘All creatures great and small

  All things wise and wonderful …’

  Ted craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Rodney. ‘Oh dear,’ he thought. ‘Don’t say they’re splitting up.’

  ‘The river running by,

  The sunset and the morning …’

  The long-haired Carol Fordingbridge looked charming in a grey and white floral patterned dress with white collar, and a natural straw hat with a black band. But Elvis in his thrusting young media person suit had no eyes for her charms.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ she prayed, ‘make the whole world happy. Get rid of poverty and disease, and make Elvis love me.’

  ‘All things wise and wonderful,’ sang that small congregation, dwarfed by the cool, echoing church. ‘The Lord God made them all.’

  Even Liz, the high and mighty, the haughty and naughty, couldn’t resist a curious glance at Rodney.

  ‘Rodney looks awful,’ she thought. ‘Don’t say he’s got marital problems.’

&nb
sp; ‘How great is God almighty,

  Who has made all things well …’

  ‘I wish He could make me well,’ thought Rodney. ‘But I deserve it. I have strayed, oh Lord.’

  ‘All things wise and wonderful,

  The Lord God made them all.’

  The last notes of the organ reverberated around the empty nave, and died. There was total silence. The vicar couldn’t have taken Liz’s son from her with less confidence if the boy had been a great lump of soap.

  Ted Simcock, former maker of door knockers, macho Yorkshireman, found himself smiling inanely as the vicar held his son awkwardly over the font, and as the infant splashed water over himself, baptising himself before the vicar could do it.

  Ted’s smile died as he heard the vicar’s words.

  ‘Josceleyn Neville Selwyn, I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’

  ‘Josceleyn Neville Selwyn,’ he thought. ‘My son is going to be known to the world as Josceleyn Neville Selwyn Badger.’

  A greater sense of loss than he had ever known swept over Ted. He felt as if he was the biggest of a set of Russian dolls. He felt that if he could be opened up other Ted Simcocks would be found there, less puffed-up, less pretentious, better, more honest, more loving, more caring Ted Simcocks. Happier Ted Simcocks.

  Liz Badger, mother of his baby, didn’t acknowledge at that moment that he existed.

  Corinna Price-Rodgerson clutched Ted’s arm, and his sense of loss was almost swept away.

  Stepping out of the church was like colliding with a damp flannel. The afternoon was as grey as the face of a dying man.

  Outside the West Door, where mythological stone beasts hid among exquisite carved leaves, the new young vicar spoke with Neville and Liz, playing the conversation game, at which he was already being compared unfavourably with the old vicar by some inappropriately uncharitable Christians in his flock.

  ‘He looks so very like you, Mr Badger,’ he said. ‘I find that extraordinary.’

  ‘Yes, I … I find it rather extraordinary myself,’ said Neville.

  ‘So many people take these things for granted,’ said the vicar. ‘But the seed, the tiny seed, growing into a person that resembles its parents, every time I see it I think “This is a miracle.”’

  ‘In this case it certainly is,’ said Liz, half to herself. She moved off, taking Neville in her slip-stream, and the vicar made a mental note to be less religious in his small talk.

  The guests stood around, chatting, waiting for their hosts to set off for the party.

  Rita tackled Rodney. ‘Betty didn’t make it then?’ she prompted.

  ‘No. She was hoping so much … Oooh!’ He gasped with pain. ‘Excuse me, Rita.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Rita as she walked away. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

  Rodney was just lowering himself onto a wooden bench beside the church when he saw Ted and Corinna bearing down upon him. With a sigh he stood up almost straight again.

  ‘Are you all right, Rodney?’ asked Ted.

  ‘Yes. Grand.’ His voice was as contorted with pain as it had often been with drink. ‘Just grand. Right good. Top form.’

  ‘You know Corinna, my fiancée, don’t you?’

  Corinna beamed at Rodney.

  ‘Your fiancée!’ said Rodney. ‘What happened to …’ Ted, behind Corinna, shook his head furiously. ‘… to the famous British reserve, our native shyness …’ Ted nodded. ‘… that you’ve got engaged so quickly?’

  ‘Love brooks no frontiers, Rodney.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Love breaks down barriers. Betty away again?’

  ‘Yes, she’s … er …’ he groaned again, ‘… excuse me. I have sinned, and I’m reaping the whirlwind.’

  Rodney collapsed onto the bench.

  Corinna continued to smile. She seemed happy to be silently benevolent until called upon to speak.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Ted, as they walked away from the ailing former imprisoner of chickens. ‘Oh Lord. Oh heck.’

  Liz and Neville stood watching the clusters of guests, as if they were outsiders who had no right to be there, rather than the raison d’etre for the elegant little shindig. Neville was looking worried.

  ‘He’ll be all right with his godparents,’ said Liz.

  The pregnant, charmingly shapeless, slightly fey Judy Denton had carried little Josceleyn off, in practice for the days ahead.

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Neville. ‘I was thinking, it’ll look odd if we don’t invite Ted and Corinna back now they’re here. It’ll set tongues wagging.’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Liz. ‘Do we really still care that much about wagging tongues?’

  ‘And they have just announced their engagement. It’ll look a bit graceless.’

  ‘Oh Lord. Today of all days, Neville, I would like to be free of memories of Ted.’

  ‘He’ll be discreet. He’s with his fiancée, whose father is a bishop.’

  ‘Ah! So that means she’s so socially acceptable that we must ask her.’

  ‘No. Of course not. No, I think that, accepting as we must that your son … our son … is in reality the product of Ted’s … er …’

  ‘Spermatazoa.’

  ‘Liz! Well, yes, in a … that it would be a Christian gesture, on a Christian day, to invite Ted to … wet the baby’s head.’

  A two-carriage Sprinter train clanked slowly through the quiet Sunday afternoon. A few married couples were walking along the paths that criss-crossed the churchyard. Their dogs were fouling the paths. They gazed at their shitting dogs with adoration. Ted and his orange fiancée bore down on Neville and Liz.

  ‘Well …,’ said Ted, ‘… we’ll just slip quietly away, so …good luck, eh?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Neville. ‘No, no. No need. I’d … er … we’d … er … I’d very much like it if you came to the … er …’

  ‘I thought it was family only,’ said Corinna.

  ‘Ted is very much family, Corinna, in a way,’ said Liz.

  Ted leapt in much too quickly. ‘Liz is referring to the fact that our two families are linked by wedlock, darling,’ he said.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s what I assumed she meant,’ said Corinna with apparent innocence. ‘What else could she have meant?’

  ‘What else?’ agreed Ted. ‘Exactly. Nothing else. Precisely. My point exactly.’ He turned to the Badgers. ‘We’d love to come,’ he said. ‘Where are the junketings? À la maison de les Badgers?’

  ‘No, Ted,’ said Neville. ‘At the Clissold Lodge. But the Brontë Suite this time. It’s smaller.’

  ‘Then we’ll see you in the Brontë Suite,’ said Ted, and he winked to show them that they could rely on him, because he knew how to behave in public, but Liz and Neville, seeing him wink, thought, ‘Oh Lord. Ted doesn’t know how to behave in public. Can we rely on him?’

  Simon was unused to holding babies. You didn’t get much call for it, at Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch. He realised that Judy had found Josceleyn heavy, in her condition, but her handing over of him in public had seemed a tactless symbolic gesture under the circumstances. He was terrified that the boy would slip from his grasp, or choke to death, or merely scream his head off. He held him as if he were a carrier bag of doubtful strength full of bottles of Château Lafitte. He was terrified that Judy intended to begin a meaningful conversation. He would have welcomed the arrival of a third party, had it not been Andrew Denton, fellow godfather, life-long wag, husband of Judy, and official father of the child in Judy’s womb.

  ‘He does look a bit like his father, doesn’t he?’ said Judy, who was practising having maternal feelings by gazing at Josceleyn fondly.

  ‘Let’s hope our baby doesn’t look like his father, eh?’ said Andrew.

  ‘What?’ said Simon and Judy, aghast.

  ‘Because I’ve got an ugly mug,’ explained Andrew Denton. ‘Joke.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Joke. Right,’ said Simon and Judy. And they laughed. They were
worried that their laughs hadn’t sounded convincing, but Andrew hadn’t noticed anything suspicious. He was only too used to receiving unconvincing laughs.

  The Brontë Suite, the fifth smallest of the fifty-seven Brontë Suites in hotels in Yorkshire, was barely half the size of the Garden Room. It looked out over the front of the hotel, where the gravel drive curved away through the park-like grounds, dotted with oaks and chestnuts, to the narrow woods that screened the hotel from the Tadcaster Road. It made no nod to the existence of the Brontë sisters beyond taking their name. There were dark polished wood panels interspersed with dignified striped green wallpaper. The modern stainless steel lights didn’t go with the crystal chandelier. The three paintings – of Bolton Abbey, Fountains Abbey and Rievaulx Abbey – had known more apposite days, when it had been the Abbey Suite. But what they lacked in relevance, they also lacked in quality.

  On trestle tables at one end of the room, beneath Rievaulx Abbey, as it chanced, there was a fine array of sandwiches – smoked salmon, cucumber, rare roast beef – and fancy cakes and biscuits. There was also a christening cake, with baby and cradle atop it, and this was widely held to be consistent with the standards expected of the Vale of York Bakery in Slaughterhouse Lane.

  Eric Siddall, barman supreme, polka-dotted bow tie slightly askew, as if to suggest that he had a vaguely rakish past, stood by a table on which there were several bottles of champagne, two of them in ice-buckets. There were fluted champagne glasses and tea cups. Eric looked uncomfortable when Graham Wintergreen, manager of the golf club, entered. Graham Wintergreen looked uncomfortable when he saw Eric.

  The guests were filing in from their cars. Many carried little presents, which they handed to Neville and Liz, who didn’t unwrap them.