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Sidney sits at his desk and taps his capped fountain pen against the blotter. He can still feel dampness from the river at the back of his neck. The curly ends of his hair haven’t dried yet and he pushes it out over his collar. He reaches automatically for the glass of whiskey that should be by his hand and makes a fist when he doesn’t find it. The bottle is in the lower drawer; he could get without even shifting position. Instead of reaching for it, though, he sighs, shifts in the chair, and slides his free hand into his pocket, snapping the thumbnail of his other hand against the clip of the pen.
Forty-five minutes ago, just after tea, he had come in here and sat down with the firm intention of outlining his sermon for the upcoming Sunday. He has a very neat line of dots down the left margin of the page, three games of naughts and crosses in the lower corner -- and that was all.
‘Oh, come on--’ He looks out the window into the garden. It’s a lovely summer day. He’s sure Sunday will also be a lovely summer day, and what could be easier than writing a lovely summer sermon? Even Leonard’s gotten the hang of it -- although Sidney’s not sure he’ll ever recover from Leonard’s burst of enthusiasm for Henry Thoreau during the spring. There had been a week or so when he felt he knew the geography of Concord, Massachusetts as well as he does the layout of his own church.
‘Green things growing --’ he mutters to himself, pulling a face at the page and flipping the pen between his fingers. It’s a pity it isn’t harvest-time; he was good at those in seminary. Thinking of this afternoon, perhaps there’s some way to work picnics into it -- he laughs, picturing Mrs. M’s face if he were to stand up on Sunday and declare that the lesson of the week is the works of God made visible through the fishing of ants out of the tuna mayonnaise. She would probably abandon him on the spot.
He narrows his eyes at the view out the window, thinking of the rest of the conversation of that afternoon, turning it over in his mind to see if he could pull any little phrase out of it for use.
You should let Geordie get you a girl.
He snorts and frowns at the richly flowering honeysuckle just outside. The scent is heavy in the air even inside, an almost too sweet scent that only barely escapes being overpowering.
Yes, that would make a wonderful homily: he could talk about the benefits of matchmaking and arranged marriages. He’d never get a wedding again. Leaving that aside, there might be something to be mined out of friendship, companionship, pleasant company in pleasant weather--
Or he could be more honest, talk about the social difficulties of going picnicking with someone you’re attracted to... and that someone’s wife. He tosses down the pen and glowers at it. Yes, he could do that. And then he could have the fun of spending the rest of the year being removed from his position, defrocked, and jailed.
The discussion of his need of a female companion is stuck in his head now, repeating itself, and he can’t get past it. He thinks he passed it off well enough at the time, taking it as the chaff he’s sure it was meant to be. -- But it’s always difficult to be sure exactly what Geordie has caught and what he hasn’t. In front of his wife, too -- Sidney groans quietly to himself. It’s a good thing he really has had years of practice at masking who he’s attracted to, or Cathy’s bright comment might have left him flat-footed. The whole thing had really been more annoying than funny.
Viewed impartially, Geordie is often more annoying than he is funny. The only problem with that as a sort of self-defense is that Sidney is no more capable of viewing Geordie impartially than he is of flying.
He growls to himself and goes outside to pin up the wayward ends of the honeysuckle.
He feels better outdoors. The air is clear, cooling towards what looks like being a pretty sunset and the honeysuckle is remarkably pliant. It only takes about half an hour to get the wandering tendrils tied and tucked away from the panes. He moves on from the honeysuckle to weeding the flower border below the window, then to trimming back part of the hedge near the gate.
He doesn’t fully admit to himself how much he’s avoiding thinking until he finds himself sharpening the shears and contemplating cleaning the set of gardening tools in the shed. It’s Mrs. M’s evening out, after all, no chance she’ll come out and read him a lesson on what a vicar should and should not be doing about the place. Sidney hangs the shears back on their nail and turns to look out the open shed doors at the garden. The sun is fully down now, the last light just filtering through the hedge and showing up the honeysuckle flowers as pale stars.
There’s a light in Leonard’s room and, as he looks, the window is pushed further open, then the curtain sways gently back into place. The whole scene is quiet enough to seem slightly eerie: he can’t even hear a radio playing. The scent of the honeysuckle is fading a little as the warmth of the day goes; he can smell the grass he's crushed, the stains of weeds and earth on his hands.
As he stands, contemplating how much more time he can afford to waste before the sermon becomes truly imperative, the gate snicks.
‘And aren’t you supposed to be hard at work?’ Geordie says, coming directly across the lawn towards him.
‘And aren’t you supposed to be at home?’ Sidney stays where he is, leaning against the open shed door.
Geordie shrugs. ‘Got the kids to bed. Cathy’s off for a night with her girls.’
‘So you thought you’d come back and bother me?’
‘Thought you might have a drink.’
Sidney makes a show of patting his pockets, then holds out empty palms. ‘I don’t generally keep a bottle in the shed.’
‘Ah, what sort of man are ye?’ Geordie’s accent comes out more strongly when he’s relaxed or teasing and Sidney knows this is a joke but he can’t seem to manage to take it as meant. It scrapes nerves that have been already been rubbed raw by the day.
‘One without a girlfriend,’ he says stiffly, straightening up. There are times -- and this is one of them -- when he feels the only actual defense he has against Geordie is height and right now he’s willing to use it shamelessly. So he stays right where he is, feet planted just at the top of the short ramp he put in place to save himself having to dead-lift the barrow in and out. ‘Did you come back to propose some new plan for fixing that?’
Geordie shakes his head, stopping a few feet away and sliding his hands into his pockets. He’s in shirt-sleeves, the same loose flannel trousers he had on this afternoon, hatless. It’s dim enough in the garden now that Sidney can’t see his face very clearly. ‘Amanda still a bit too fresh on your mind, eh?’
‘No, not at all.’ It isn’t a lie although it may be an exaggeration.
‘No.' Geordie shakes his head. 'Cath didn’t think that was it either.’
‘Then she’s a very bright woman.’ Sidney waits but Geordie says nothing else and the silence starts to grate. High ground or not, he steps out of the shed and closes the door, latching it. ‘Was there something you actually wanted? Because I really should--’
As he moves to step past, Geordie catches his arm, pulling him to a stop, and taking a half-step back himself so he can look up into Sidney’s face. Sidney meets his gaze as best he can. This close, the dim light isn’t a help to him any more; Geordie's close enough that Sidney can catch the acrid whiff of tobacco and smell a faint tang of clean sweat and whiskey below that. ‘What?’
Geordie says nothing but continues to study him as though Sidney were the photograph of a suspect he had to memorize.
‘What, Geordie?’ He’s starting to feel self-conscious and stops himself with an effort from fiddling with his open collar or checking his shirt sleeves where he has them cuffed back below his elbows. He does run his free hand back through his hair and schools himself to ignore the feeling of Geordie’s palm on his arm. ‘I can give you a photograph. It’ll last longer.’
‘Don’t like ‘em -- see too many of ‘em down at the station,’ Geordie says without letting go.
‘Then what do you want?’ Sidney demands, his patience starting to fray. ‘I can’t stand here in the garden all evening for your edification. I’d’ve thought you saw enough of me down at the station as well.’
‘I had a question.’ Geordie finally loosens his grip but doesn’t step away; his hand stays in touch with Sidney’s arm, his fingers just brushing the back of Sidney’s hand.
Sidney takes a deep breath, taking a firm grip on the shredding ends of his temper. ‘Then ask it.’
Geordie is silent for another minute, then shakes his head. ‘Not sure I need to now.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘One. At home.’
‘Then what do you want?’ Sidney spaces out the words, pronouncing each with elaborate care.
Geordie’s silent for a further moment then, seemingly to himself, says, ‘Ah, well, what’s the worst,’ shrugs, and leans up to--
Sidney jerks back involuntarily, every nerve he owns singing, and his lips burning as though he’d tried to eat something spicy. ‘What the hell are you doing!’ He only barely manages to keep himself from shouting and ends up hissing the question in Geordie’s face.
Geordie shrugs again, not looking particularly offended by Sidney’s reaction. ‘Testing out an idea. Isn’t that what you’re always wanting me to do?’
‘Yes -- but -- I -- in the bloody garden!’
Geordie grins at him, an unexpectedly schoolboy expression. ‘Ah, so I was right.’
‘Yes, yes, all right, you were right, congratulations, good for you, full marks, I’ll have a medal struck immediately.’ Sidney rubs a shaking hand over his mouth and adds, ‘I hope you won’t mind if I don’t put what it’s for on the medal.’
Geordie shakes his head. ‘Not at all -- if you let me finish what I started.’