The Four Last Things. Andrew Taylor

to an arthritic hip. As a young man, Sally thought, he must have been very good-looking. Now he was at least seventy, and a lifetime of self-discipline had given his features a harsh, almost predatory cast; his skin looked raw and somehow thinner than other people’s.

      ‘I’m so sorry not to have been here for lunch,’ Sally said, trying to ignore the distant wails. ‘An unexpected wedding.’

      David inclined his head, acknowledging that he had heard.

      ‘The vicar had to go to casualty. Turned out to be an abscess.’ Why did she have to sound so bright and cheery? ‘Has Lucy been rather a handful?’

      ‘She’s a lively child. It’s natural.’

      ‘It’s a difficult age,’ Sally said wildly; all ages were difficult. ‘She’s inclined to play up when I’m not around.’

      That earned another stately nod, and also a twitch of the lips which possibly expressed disapproval of working mothers.

      ‘I hope Michael has fed you well?’

      ‘Yes, thank you. Have you had time to eat, yourself?’

      ‘Not yet. There’s no hurry. Do smoke, by the way.’

      He stared at her as if nothing had been further from his mind.

      ‘How’s St Thomas coming along?’

      ‘The book?’ The tone reproved her flippancy. ‘Slowly.’

      ‘Aquinas must be a very interesting subject.’

      ‘Indeed.’

      ‘I read somewhere that his fellow students called him the dumb ox of Sicily,’ Sally said with a touch of desperation. ‘Do you have a title yet?’

      ‘The Angelic Doctor.’

      Sally quietly lost her temper. One moment she had it under firm control, the next it was gone. ‘Tell me, do you think that a man who was fascinated by the nature of angels has anything useful to say to us?’

      ‘I think St Thomas will always have something useful to say to those of us who want to listen.’

      Not trusting herself to speak, Sally poured herself a glass of claret from the open bottle on the table. She gestured to David with the bottle.

      ‘No, thank you.’

      For a moment they listened to the traffic in Hercules Road and Lucy’s crying, now diminishing in volume.

      The phone rang. Sally seized it with relief.

      ‘Sally? It’s Oliver. Is Michael there?’

      ‘I’ll fetch him.’

      She opened the living room door. Michael was sitting on Lucy’s bed, rocking her to and fro on his lap. She had her eyes closed and her fingers in her mouth; they both looked very peaceful. He looked at Sally over Lucy’s face.

      ‘Oliver.’

      For an instant his face seemed to freeze, as though trapped by the click of a camera shutter. ‘I’ll take it in the bedroom.’

      Lucy whimpered as Michael passed her to Sally. In the sitting room, Lucy curled up on one end of the sofa and stared longingly at the blank screen of the television. Sally picked up the handset of the phone. Oliver was speaking: ‘… complaining. You know what that …’ She dropped the handset on the rest.

      ‘It’s a colleague of Michael’s. I’m afraid it may be work.’

      ‘I should be going.’ David began to manoeuvre himself forward on the seat of the chair.

      ‘There’s no hurry, really. Stay for some tea. Anyway, perhaps Michael won’t have to go out.’ Desperate for a neutral subject of conversation, she went on, ‘It’s Oliver Rickford, actually. Do you remember him? He was Michael’s best man.’

      ‘I remember.’

      There was another silence. The subject wasn’t neutral after all: it reminded them both that David had refused to conduct their wedding. According to Michael, he had felt it would be inappropriate because for theological reasons he did not acknowledge the validity of Sally’s orders. He had come to the service, however, and hovered, austere and unfestive, at the reception. He had presented them with a small silver clock which had belonged to his wife’s parents. The clock did not work but Michael insisted in having it on the mantelpiece. Sally stared at it now, the hands eternally at ten to three and not a sign of bloody honey.

      Michael came in. She knew from his face that he was going out, and knew too that something was wrong. Lucy began to cry and David said he really should leave before the light went.

      The last Friday in November began with a squabble over the breakfast table about who should take Lucy to Carla’s. As the school was closed for In-Service Training, Lucy was to stay with the child minder all day.

      ‘Can’t you take her this once, Michael? I promised I’d give Stella a lift to hospital this morning.’

      ‘Why didn’t you mention it before?’

      ‘I did – last night.’

      ‘I don’t remember. Stella’s not ill, is she?’

      ‘They’re trying to induce her daughter. It’s her first. She’s a couple of weeks overdue.’

      ‘It’s not going to make that much difference if Stella gets there half an hour later, is it?’

      ‘It’ll be longer than that because I’ll hit the traffic.’

      ‘I’m sorry. It’s out of the question.’

      ‘Why? Usually you can –’

      Michael pushed his muesli bowl aside with such force that he spilled his tea. ‘This isn’t a usual day.’ His voice was loud and harsh. ‘I’ve got a meeting at nine-fifteen. I can’t get out of it.’

      Sally opened her mouth to reply but happened to catch Lucy’s eye. Their daughter was watching them avidly.

      ‘Very well. I’d better tell Stella.’

      She left the room. After she made the phone call she made the beds because she couldn’t trust herself to go back into the kitchen. She heard Michael leaving the flat. He didn’t call goodbye. Usually he would have kissed her. She was miserably aware that too many of their conversations ended in arguments. Not that there seemed to be much time at present even to argue.

      On the way to Carla’s, Sally worried about Michael and tried to concentrate on driving. Meanwhile, Lucy talked incessantly. She had a two-pronged strategy. On the one hand she emphasized how much she didn’t want to go to Carla’s today, and how she really wanted to stay at home with Mummy; on the other she made it clear that her future happiness depended on whether or not Sally bought her a conjuring set that Lucy had seen advertised on television. The performance lacked subtlety but it was relentless and in its primitive way highly skilled. What Lucy had not taken into account, however, was the timing.

      ‘Do be quiet, Lucy,’ Sally snarled over her shoulder. ‘I’m not going to take you to Woolworth’s. And no, we’re not spending all that money on a conjuring set. Not today, and not for Christmas. It’s just not worth it. Overpriced rubbish.’

      Lucy tried tears of grief and, when these failed, tears of rage. For once it was a relief to leave her at Carla’s.

      The day moved swiftly from bad to worse. Driving Stella to hospital took much longer than Sally had anticipated because of roadworks. Stella was worried about her daughter and inclined to be grumpy with Sally because of the delay; but once at the hospital she was reluctant to let Sally go.

      The hospital trip made Sally late for the monthly committee meeting dealing with the parish finances which began at eleven. She arrived to find that Derek had taken advantage of her absence and rushed through a proposal to buy new disco equipment for the Parish Room, a scheme which