Outside the bedroom window of the vicarage, the trees waved their branches as heavy winds and squalls of rain showers blasted through them. The leaves of the trees were starting to curl brown at the edges from the onset of autumn. It suited Babs' mood, which was bleak inside, however much she wore her smile for her dear Henry's sake. The thought that his health had slid alarmingly downhill so soon tore at her heart. She did not want to know just yet that she had been through this situation before.
She ought to have been warned by Henry's increasing pallor but then again, he had never looked the healthy open-air kind of man. That tendency to a racking cough last summer had made her worry slightly but the dear, foolish man would never have let himself be dragged along to the doctor for a check up. He had always been the pack mule in life, able to carry any burden uncomplainingly, never to give way and bemoan his lot. He had looked after his first wife so devotedly throughout her illness that it had made him self sufficient to a fault, to the point that he, the vicar, should listen to advice himself.
She could remember at last that feeling of jubilation when she had finally got Henry to go to his local doctor. He was of the old fashioned school, not dissimilar from Henry, which was what finally led him to tear himself away from his duties. He was immensely reassuring in his manner and had unhurriedly written out a referral to the specialist at St. Mary's hospital in Paddington. He spoke confidently of the enormous advances the medical profession had made in the last few years, since Peter's untimely death while delicately not spelling it out in words. She really did think that there was hope for him, because she had wanted to believe it. She had watched the post dropping through the letterbox with an eagle eye while trying to keep up the act to herself and to Henry that everything was in hand. It was a Middle England tradition to believe in the wisdom of the captain and that everyone would be rescued. Her previous experience of Larkhall had taught her the savage lesson that, in that particular establishment, the sergeants and lieutenants were either fools or villains or both but in this area of precious life itself, she had wanted to believe.
All the more paralysing was the shock was Henry had been taken in immediately for an operation and the bad news was broached to her in private.
"I'm Connie Beauchamp, consultant cardio thoracic surgeon….." She started in confidently enough before the hesitation in her voice gave away what she was going to say.
"…..I'm really sorry to tell you, Barbara, that your husband is suffering from a highly advanced malignant form of cancer of the lung. I started the operation but I found that it was too far advanced to do anything about it. To tell you the truth, I wonder that he has not come for treatment earlier than this. He must have been in pain from the illness and the repeated coughing which must have made him feel weak and drained. He must be a very strong willed man."
This was the part of her job that the consultant had found distasteful, just how to break the bad news. It went against her instincts to fight hard for other people's lives with that dedication and perfectionism that was embedded deep within her. Anything less than success was a personal failure, which she successfully hid behind that professional mask.
Babs might even have smiled politely in her usual restrained Middle England way. The gesture was automatic. It took a little while for her to recover from the shock of the announcement and her first crazy inconsequential thought was how young the consultant was. "That's Henry all right. I am afraid that his deeply held vocation as a vicar makes him the world's worst patient." The other woman smiled politely back at her in her usual way but something in the expression in her eye and the faint lines in her face visibly recognised a kindred soul. "I'm afraid that palliative treatment is all that can be offered." "How long has he got? I have gone through this before with my previous husband and I know what to expect. I would prefer to face the truth." "A matter of some months, I'm afraid." As the final death sentence was pronounced in as caring gentle fashion as possible, Babs immediately reproached herself for not insisting more forcibly that he go to the doctor but dear Henry would never have gone before. I went against my secret better judgement as I knew deep down that I would have done the same if I were him.
From then on, Babs tried to take one or two of the more onerous duties off him and a locum used to stand in for Henry when even he admitted that his strength was beyond him to stand in the pulpit and to project his voice to the entire congregation in the church. It happened occasionally at first and then more often as time and his illness progressed.
It explained why the memory of one of her proudest moments in her life, the performance of the "Creation" was so mixed. On the one hand, it did her good to lose herself in rehearsals in the religious severity of her harpsichord part. It gave her something she could concentrate on and to lose herself in.
The performance was an utterly overwhelming experience when she was at one in the swelling cascade of instrumental devotion in all its shapes and sounds and tones. The magnificent harmonising of George, Neil and Monty was something out of the world. She could still remember the words sung as the piece approached its triumphant finale.
"Spouse adored, at thy side, purest joys o'erflow the heart.
With thee, with thee, with thee."
That was true and truly inspiring if it weren't for human mortality. At a time like this when one partner might be fated to be outlasted by the other, it tried her Christian faith to the utmost.
She was so proud of her dear Henry that day as she reminisced, determinedly thinking of happier times. His thanks for the magnificent performance were in his typically generous, genuine fashion. She might even have persuaded herself that he looked hale and hearty except for his whispered aside to her in the celebrations in the church hall as to how much the day had taken it out of him. It was then that she put up her façade to Karen of all people that she had faith for Henry's future when that was slipping away from her like sand trickling through an egg timer. Right now, she dared not even think of the future, only the day-to-day present.
"It's all right, dearest," She reassured Henry on that Saturday in September. "The locum has been arranged for tomorrow. He has no trouble in attending."
"That is good news, Barbara. I fear I have been imposing on his good nature. I must offer my thanks, you know, when I am fit enough to take over."
A single tear hovered in Babs eye. He still thinks that he will fight his illness. I wish I had his faith, she thought ruefully.
"That's all right, Henry. He is only too glad to help. You might not know it but you are held up as an example to the younger vicars."
"He does me too much credit. I have only done what I should have done…."Henry's weakened self deprecating reply was interrupted by a coughing bout. Babs immediately came to him and did what she could do for him, which she felt, was precious little.
"You, on the other hand, have offered me so much comfort over the last couple of years, Barbara. I have had such a happy life with you."
"Have, Henry dear?" Babs questioned with a brave smile. "You make it sound as you're talking about the past."
"The past, the present and the fut…." Henry started to say when a coughing bout racked his far too thin body.
It was a little while later that Henry lay back on the long settee, which was covered by a large duvet. He would not hear of taking to his bed. That seemed symbolic of lying back and accepting his fate meekly. Appearances were misleading where Henry was concerned. He was quite prepared to run up against his brother who had made a pretense of being willing to help at the wedding only to turn vociferously against her. Though Henry was the younger of the two brothers, he stood up fearlessly to fight to defend the woman that he loved, more deeply than his fragile health would permit him to say at length.
"You could have ended up with Bodybag once. She made a very determined play for you once."
"Heaven forbid," Henry smiled faintly. "I still remember being embarrassed by that pushy woman. Thank goodness you came to the rescue……."
Henry's eyelids drooped over and the fingers relaxed and let the pen he had been holding drop gently onto the quilt while the little notebook he had been writing in lay where he had dropped it. He was still painfully making notes for further church services in the future and tasks that he intended to do when he was better. He was conscious of time and duties slipping away from him. That was not like him, he sleepily reflected.
Suddenly, he twitched in his sleep and cracks in his eyelids started to open up.
"We were talking about us, Barbara. I think I remember rightly though my memory is not what it used to be."
"It happens to us all as we get older."
"I've always been conscious of you in the vicarage wherever I am. You don't have to say anything or do anything. I just know that you're around. So restful, so peaceful and so caring. Before you came into my life, I had given up on my future. When I saw you distinctly for the first time at Larkhall, I knew that you were meant to be part of my life. I am a somewhat shy man and I took my time in talking properly to you………"
"Everything happened for the best, Henry. Even the time when I thought you were far too trusting and naïve in letting that fearful woman, Snowball Merriman manipulate you."
"You were always right, Barbara….."
The wind continued to howl round the vicarage, besieging it in the foretaste of winter to come. It always has to happen this time of the year that nature starts to decay until the first buds of spring the following year. Nature is so much better ordered than human lives.
"You ought to get to see your friends more, Barbara. You cannot wear yourself out day after day looking after me…."
So who would look after Henry, Babs asked God in her misery? She was becoming very afraid for what might happen to Henry. She had another appointment to check up on Henry's health and having to fight down an instinct to not want to know. She was getting more and more tired and looking after Henry was becoming harder work. The idea seemed lovely but somewhat unrealistic.
"I will some time. Rest assured of that."
There was no conviction behind her tones. She rarely went out of the vicarage these days unless she had to. That was her life these days.
They chatted awhile about the past, as if in hanging onto the past, the present would be more secure.