Barbara Vine - The Minotaur

Winifred was staring at him in horror. She made a move to get up and I wondered what she was going to do but at that moment Eric appeared, went to his desk by the choir stalls and, calling us ‘dearly beloved’, began asking us to accompany him to the throne of the heavenly grace. Also fascinated but in a less disapproving way, Ella sneaked glances at Dunsford, pretending her eyes were on a wasp which buzzed around conveniently between his row and ours. While we sang ‘Dear Lord and Father of mankind’ – I thought the next line, ‘Forgive our foolish ways’, particularly apt – she gazed past me at Dunsford and the wasp which, alighting on the hand which held Hymns Ancient and Modern , was crawling up his thumb towards the nail. It paused on a green paint stain it perhaps took for a leaf. Dunsford seemed undisturbed by it and continued to sing in a fine baritone voice. If it is true that staring at someone will eventually make him look at you, her gaze had that effect on Dunsford, for he turned his head and, still singing, winked. Ella abruptly jerked her head round to face Eric and the wasp flew off.

All this time Winifred, the wasp-phobic, had been trembling and shrinking, flapping her hands and sometimes shutting her eyes. She only relaxed when the insect soared off into the hammer beams above our heads. The congregation recited the Te Deum’ in the kind of sepulchral voice mourners might use at the mass funeral of everyone they held dear, and we settled down to hear Eric preach on the laudable subject of loving one's neighbour as oneself. It made me wonder if he did so and I decided he probably did. Felix Dunsford had closed his eyes and seemed to have fallen asleep.

As things were drawing to a close, Winifred whispered to me, ‘Have you been confirmed? You can't take Communion if you haven't.’

If I was anything, I was a Lutheran as my parents were, if they were anything. I had no idea if I was confirmed or even if the Lutherans had confirmation but I nodded to save trouble. My church visit was too enjoyable to be cut short just yet. The turmoil Felix Dunsford was causing, especially among the women in the congregation, was an unexpected treat and I wanted to see what would develop.

Eric and Mr Cusp went through a ritual with a chalice and a silver box and people began moving out of the pews and lining up. I wish I knew the terms which were used and what the language meant, but I didn't and I'm told all is changed now. I had no understanding of Eric's meaning when he addressed us nor much of what we were doing kneeling on hassocks and waiting for the bread and the wine. Of course I was not ignorant of the significance of the ceremony but I expected a wafer on my tongue was that the Roman Catholics? – not a cube of white bread and I was surprised by the sweetness of the dark red wine in the chalice.

‘Blood of Christ, shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ's Blood was shed for thee and be thankful.’

Everyone said Amen when it was their turn so I did too. The kind of superstitiousness of which we all have remnants brought me a stab of fear because of my probably unconfirmed state, but of course no divine retribution came down to strike me. I was hazy as to whether we were supposed to believe we were actually partaking of Christ's blood and body by a miracle of transubstantiation or if all this was a symbol. There was no one I could ask without ignominy. Felix Dunsford continued to sit in his pew with one leg crossed over the opposite knee, apparently studying the people as they went up. Most of them, when they returned to their seats, fell on their knees and buried faces in hands. I sat where I was, looking at the saints behind the altar, the Gospel makers with lion, angel, bull and eagle, wondering if I was in a state of grace. Or was that too a Catholic concept?

Felix Dunsford grinned at me and, after a small hesitation, I smiled back. I was thinking how I could get to meet the organist. At least I could find out his name and where he lived. It was Winifred whose behaviour brought me to look in Dunsford's direction again. When everyone had made their communion, Eric recited a bit more from the Book of Common Prayer and the service was over. My husband is an Anglican and it has always amazed and amused me how quickly the transition is made in his church between an atmosphere of sombre reverence and one of a community centre. Even while the organist was playing – Zadok the Priest this time – the congregation, transformed into social club members, were chatting away, gossiping, issuing invitations, asking after missing relatives. In her future Mrs Rector's capacity, I suppose, Winifred passed on some piece of information to her friend June Prothero, and then she went over to Felix Dunsford.

‘May we have a word?’ I heard her say.

‘Sure.’ He gave her a cool but friendly grin. ‘Sure.’ He held out his hand. ‘Felix Dunsford at your service.’

‘Winifred Cosway. Mr Dawson, our Rector, is my fiancé.’

‘That's nice. Congratulations. I like your ring.’

This wasn't at all what Winifred had expected but she said a brief thank-you and assumed her Sunday school teacher's manner. ‘I just wanted to say – and you mustn't take this amiss – that your clothes aren't quite suitable for church. Not very complimentary to Mr Dawson, do you think?’

‘You want me to take them off?’

He was rewarded by one of the finest blushes he can ever have seen. It began in Winifred's cheeks and spread across her whole face, colouring her neck and the skin revealed by the V of her neckline. ‘Please,’ she said, and then, realizing what she implied, ‘Of course not I meant you to wear something a little more – well, formal, next time you come.’

He was laughing. ‘What if I haven't got anything a little more formal?’

By this time Winifred must have been wishing she had never started this. ‘I'm sure you have. I'm sure you can find something.’

‘I'll tell you what. Why don't you come round and have a look for me? Next Sunday morning before I get dressed?’ He patted her on the shoulder and walked off, still laughing.

Winifred put her hand up to where he had touched her as if she had been stung by the now-vanished wasp. ‘What an insufferable man.’

‘You asked for it,’ said Ella, ‘putting your spoke in.’

We filed out past Eric, who gave Winifred a kiss on the cheek and asked if he was right in thinking he had been invited to lunch.

‘Of course, darling.’ She sounded like Zorah.

‘I liked your organist's playing,’ I said to him. ‘It was Swedish music.’

‘Was it now?’ I could tell he had no interest in music of any sort. ‘Dear old Jim is sometimes too advanced for our quiet backwater.’

Once he was out of earshot Ella reverted to Felix Dunsford. ‘Personally, I like a man to have a casual look.’

‘Not in church,’ said Winifred.

‘I don't suppose he'll come again after what you said.’

‘You know, Ella, I think you've got your eye on him. You don't stand a chance, not once he's seen Zorah. Talk about casual. You want to take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror.’

A fierce quarrel developed which only came to an enforced end when Eric's car pulled up beside us and he drove us all back to Lydstep Old Hall. John and his mother were in the living room. Eric was careful not to offer him his hand but instead dipped his head in what I believe is called a court bow. I am afraid I had put Eric down as a fool but now my estimation of him was going up rapidly.

‘How are you, old man?’ he asked John.

‘Fine, fine, I'm fine.’ The voice was the same, a robot's monotone, but the face was brighter, no longer expressionless.

The room was different. It seemed less barren and less shabby. And then I noticed the Roman vase, standing on the console table against the wall beside Mrs Cosway's sofa. Before she left for London, Zorah had restored it to John. He sat looking at it, gazing as if meditating, his hands no longer shaking but resting quietly in his lap. At seven, apparently his bedtime of choice, he got up, shambled over to the console table and laid his hands on the body of the vase. He held them there and then began to stroke the sleek green dimpled glass while his mother waited quite patiently for him to go into his bedroom with her.