Following my curate’s map I make the rest of my calls. One old man is stuck in the bath: he implores me to fetch his daughter from three doors down. At another house I’m greeted by a six-year-old boy who, when I introduce myself, shouts, “You’re not the vicar! The real vicar’s a loony!” and slams the door shut again. My last call is to Colonel Daventry, erstwhile owner of Stuart. He’s an aged gentleman whose door is answered by a housekeeper. He converses for ten minutes with great courtesy, and then I’m ushered out by the housekeeper. “Little and often, Mr. Acton,” she murmurs. “He gets very tired.”

That’s fine by me.

I spend the evening on essential unpacking and preparations for tomorrow’s service. I’m ironing my surplice when the phone rings. It’s Mr. Alan Sutton, father to Meg, the child to be christened. He’s sorry she’s got so big, but they didn’t want to get her done while Mr. Blakemore was in charge, because he kept forgetting the babies’ names. “I’ll be standing by,” he tells me, “if she tries to make a break for it.”

I’m an experienced wrangler of small children, but I appreciate the reassurance.

I eat my supper staring at the scarf on the kitchen table. The day’s encounters have drained it of some of its power. If I gaze long enough at the picture, it starts to seem so unfamiliar that I’m able to believe I’ve never seen it before. But then, when I look away, it glows in my mind’s eye.

I fold the scarf up and slip it into a drawer in the kitchen table. Out of harm’s way.

SIX

Yvette

3 March 1964

Last week I went out for a walk with James. We like to stroll along a tree-lined lane that runs behind Tom’s school playground, a little bit of country in the middle of Fulbrook, and at this time of year the bank is covered with masses and masses of primroses. I was reminded of my beautiful lemon hat, the one that was destroyed when they bombed the milliner’s during the air raid. I realized it hadn’t been lemon at all but the color known as lemon. Lemons are actually a bright solid yellow, like daffodils. My hat had been primrose all along. I shared this realization at some length with James as we walked.

He said, “Mm, yes, it was very pretty.”

I came to a stop. “James. You never saw that hat. It was blown to pieces.”

He laughed, very sheepish. “I’m sorry. I might have let my mind wander, the last few minutes.”

“It’s just background noise to you, isn’t it. A woman, prattling about hats and colors and flowers. La, la, la. Like birdsong.”

He pleaded for forgiveness, I harshly withheld it, he embraced me.

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