Tom and I had been glad to stay in Fulbrook after we lost Yvette. A working Somerset town half an hour from Bristol, it was the only home Tom had ever known. He was ten when his mother died: we both needed to cling to the tossing life raft of familiar surroundings and daily routine. Now he was a tall rucksacking student with his whole life unfolding in Norwich, on the other side of the country, leaping up the steps of the National Express bus. He didn’t need Fulbrook anymore. And now, suddenly, in spite of all the memories, the achievements, and the many deep friendships, neither did I. And all because of this startling, almost animal urge that had materialized on that still evening out of the candle flame. I couldn’t even explain it properly to myself, let alone to my archdeacon. You see, sir, I happened to catch sight of the job ad, and, well, that same night I got this feeling . . .

That would have cut no ice with Frobisher.

—

A fortnight after my interview, a long white envelope with The Reverend James Acton inscribed on it in austere black capitals, arrives.

8th August 1974

Dear Mr. Acton,

I have pleasure in informing you that you have been successful in your application to the post of Vicar of the Anglican Church of St. Peter in the Parish of Upton and Barrow End within the diocese of Winchester.

You will be expected to take up your post on or before the 1st October of this year.

All pertinent documents will be sent under separate cover in the next week.

Yours sincerely,

Ronald Frobisher, ArchD.

I am, as my curate Rick puts it, “gobsmacked.”

A month later, Fulbrook has found a new vicar. He’s young, extremely cheery, plays the guitar during his services, and enjoys rock climbing. The people involved in this choice are all awfully pleased with themselves. I sense a certain embarrassment: now it’s happened, in spite of all their kind words, they quite want me to be gone.

One day in mid-September I’m packing hand over fist when another significant piece of mail arrives. It’s a postcard of the city of Cahors: the arches of a medieval bridge skimming a wide river under the sunshine of southern France. The stamp, however, is English.

Hi Dad. Back in the UK. Just moved into house in Norwich. 12 minutes from uni on bike. Vines were hard labor but got some dough plus a cool tan! And now have phone but old tenants left without paying bill >> might get cut off soon. So ring me asap!!

A phone number, and then Love, Tom.

Immediately I dial the number. I should be thinking about the Bible study group that I’m due to host in a matter of minutes, but I can’t help myself.

The ringing stops. “Allô?” The voice is young, French, and female. “May I help you?”