Phil Rickman - The Wine of Angels

‘Rule One: don’t give in to pressure. Rule Two: collect all the information you can get, listen to all the arguments, seek out independent people who might have an opinion or a point of view you hadn’t thought about. Try to step back and see it from a different angle.’

Dermot Child, thankfully, was out of view from the pulpit. He’d be smiling to himself on the organ-stool, half-concealed from the congregation, the only one of them who knew just how little time she must have had to put this one together.

‘And then ...’ Merrily said. ‘Well, you know what I’m going to say next, don’t you? You’re thinking what else can she say, in her position?’

She focused on Miss Devenish, who fearlessly met her eyes.

‘Because of what I am, I’m going to tell you there’s only one place you can go for help. But I’m also saying it because, to me, it makes perfect sense. You could take your dilemma to the United Nations, the House of Lords, the European Court of Human Rights, wherever ... and all you’d wind up with is a whole stack of reports and lists of precedents and Green Papers and White Papers. Bumph, in other words. Take you a couple of months to wade through it, and you’d be no wiser at all, just a whole lot more confused. And the decision would still be yours.’

Miss Devenish smiled, the old witch doctor’s face crinkling, the side of the mouth tilting wryly up to the eagle nose.

‘So why not put it all on Him. That’s what He’s there for. The best advice it’s possible to get. And absolutely free. Go into a quiet place ... the middle of a field, your bathroom – or come in here, if you like. Sit down, you don’t have to kneel, or you can walk about if you want to. However you feel relaxed. But put that question. Tell Him it’s urgent. Tell Him you’d like an answer as quickly as possible.’

Merrily gathered her props together: Bible, Prayer Book, clipboard, felt-tip pen.

‘And I’m prepared to guarantee,’ she said crisply, ‘that you’ll get one.’

Outside, when it was all over, nobody mentioned the sermon. To most of them it would have been routine stuff. But, during the ritual shaking of hands by the porch, there were discreet approaches from those who ought to know what it was about.

Councillor Garrod Powell mumbled, ‘Got my message, did you, Vicar?’

James Bull-Davies coughed. ‘Need to talk, Mrs Watkins. Problem is, never know where to find you.’

Caroline Cassidy, dark-suited and pearled, turned imploring eyes on Merrily, took both her hands, whispered, ‘I’m so, so sorry about what happened last night. Girls of that age ... We must talk this over, as parents. Soon.’

Merrily put them all off. Explaining that it would be a bit chaotic this week because they were moving, at last, into the vicarage. So if whatever it was could possibly wait, she’d be delighted to offer them coffee there – once she had a table to put the cups on.

Buying time.

But not from Miss Devenish, thoughtful enough to make sure she was the last to emerge from the church. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and her summer poncho, Aztec zigzags.

‘So what are you doing this afternoon?’ Merrily murmured.

‘Go for a walk, shall we, Mrs Watkins?’

‘Whatever suits you.’

‘Two stiles on the edge of the churchyard, yes? Not the orchard one, the other one. Three o’clock?’

‘Fine,’ Merrily said. It would give her a couple of hours for that long, meaningful mother-daughter discussion.

‘Oh, and don’t bring the child, will you?’ Miss Devenish said. From behind her, Richard Coffey honoured Merrily with a distant smile and a minimal nod.

Jane looked up.

‘I was just a bit tired.’

‘You bloody well deserve it. And the headache. And the nausea.’

Jane rose abruptly from the corner of the bed, staring angrily out of the window at the sun-splashed square.

‘Did I say I had a headache? Did I say I felt sick?’

‘You threw up enough last night. I could smell it.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Jane,’ Merrily said, ‘do me the courtesy of not trying to bluff it out.’

It wasn’t meant to be like this. Returning from morning service, Merrily had made a point of changing out of her cassock, dispensing with the collar, putting on jeans. It was going to be one-to-one. Mother and daughter. Friends, even. The long, meaningful chat dealing frankly with important, practical subjects.

Like (i) cider. A few facts: it was unexpectedly cheap, went down very easily but was also usually over seven per cent proof, which was approximately twice the alcohol content of beer. Bottom line: cider gets you pissed before you know it.

And like (ii) Colette Cassidy: a difficult, spoiled girl, with a weak father and a neurotic mother. Appeared sophisticated – probably been wearing make-up since the age often – but it was all superficial. According to Ted, who had a friend who taught at the Hereford Cathedral School, Colette’s worldliness was not balanced by any great intellect.

So the message to Jane, who only yesterday had loftily professed herself more mature than her contemporaries at the high school, was: don’t think you can learn anything from Colette Cassidy. Be your own woman.

And don’t get pissed again.

She’d left Jane to sleep through the morning undisturbed, asking Roland, the manager, to hold off the chambermaid until tomorrow because the poor kid was ill. No, nothing to worry about, just a mild stomach upset.

And what should have been a shattering hangover.

So where was the damned hangover?

Christ, she needed Jane to feel bloody awful for the whole of Sunday. It was part of the lesson: you got drunk, you went through hell next day, you were chastened. Time-honoured pattern.

The great, wonderful pang of anger and relief last night, when she’d discovered what had happened. When Jane had appeared in Church Street, supported by Miss Devenish and a smallish, long-haired guy she hadn’t seen before, with the guilty party, Colette Cassidy, trailing sullenly behind. All right, it wasn’t convenient, it had lost Merrily most of a night’s sleep, but it was one of those things which had to happen one day. God – her first time with excess alcohol had been much worse; it had involved boys, and she’d been lucky not to ...

Anyway. Calm yourself, woman. People react differently, that’s all.

She turned back to the bed. ‘What about some lunch?’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Jane said tonelessly.

Well, fair enough. Merrily could remember a whole day of hugging the pillow, between Paracetamols.

But it wasn’t like that, was it? The kid was lying on her bed quite relaxed, almost serene in her white nightdress. Which she must have changed into this morning, because she’d gone to bed in that old Pulp T-shirt.

‘Cup of tea?’ Merrily offered desperately.

‘No, thanks. I might get myself one later.’

‘Jane ...’ She sat down again on a corner of the bed. ‘I’m sorry to labour the point, but you’re sure there were no men ... no boys ... with you?’

‘I told you, we got rid of them.’

‘They didn’t follow you? They weren’t around when you ... lost consciousness?’

‘Oh, Mother ...’ Jane closed her eyes. ‘Your generation thinks everything has to do with sex. I had too much to drink, I went to sleep—’

‘You passed out!’

‘Yeah, all right. But when I woke up I felt ... well, good, actually. Yeah, good. But nobody touched me. They couldn’t ... get near.’

Jane looked faintly puzzled, then it passed.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about this, but I’m really OK.’

Merrily breathed in, counted slowly, lips tight. One ... two ... three ... four ... five.