Althea has been very kind, offering to telephone Tom or take a letter at my dictation, but the offer is becoming rather insistent. Tom and I don’t need to talk about this stupid accident. We have a much bigger and more dreadful subject to address, and that won’t happen until he’s ready. “Yes, I am.” I take as deep a breath as I dare. “Althea, may we consider the subject of Tom closed for now?”

“As you wish.” She flops backward in her chair. “It’s your funeral. And, my goodness, it very nearly was. What about that archdeacon of yours! An absolute revelation. I hope he’s given you six weeks off. The very minimum, in the circs.”

I move my head toward the bedside cabinet. “Would you like to read his letter? It came yesterday.”

“Ah, a copperplate hand,” she murmurs, holding the stiff white pages at arm’s length and squinting at them. “And a high style. Heretofore. Whence. Blah . . . blah . . . Sick leave . . . Blah . . . Retreat? . . . Sabbatical?” She puts the letter down. “James, have I got this right? You’re off duty until March next year?”

We will speak soon, the letter concludes. There is much to discuss. His swirling strokes of black ink make the sentiment all the more threatening. I know perfectly well what he has in mind. He’ll knock some God into James Acton, just see if he won’t.

He’s got his work cut out, is all I can say.

The pause that Althea expects me to bring to an end lengthens. She leans once more toward me, superlatively craggy. “James, whatever it is . . . ” She widens her old, veined eyes. “Whatever it is, remember. I’m tight as a clam.”

“No mystery. Just going into dry dock. For a refit. Vicars do that, you know, as well as ships.”

“Hmm.”

A period of quiet follows.

“Ellen,” she says suddenly. “She’s dreadfully worried. She wants to come—”

“No. No, Althea, please. She’s not going to see me like this.”

“Oh!” She gives a derisive squawk. “You young people and your vanity.”

—

It takes a fortnight in all, but finally the lung membrane seals its leak. The skull bones knit. The ribs still rage, but I’m discharged armed with pills. Clive Perry comes to collect me. I approach him with wariness. Another Upton vicar keels over—what must he be thinking? Mercifully he’s technical. I hear about the house: only the back half is left standing, the front lying in ruins. The diocese, eventually, will pay for a total demolition. As for my belongings, those that are salvageable have been packed up and taken to Harvey Corey’s farmhouse. “Everything’s a bit battered, but you’ve got some clothes and books and so on. I’m afraid your record collection’s done for. And . . . your wife’s ashes. Archdeacon Frobisher asked the team to comb through the rubble, but they haven’t found the urn yet.”