Chapter 11

Sunday morning, walking into Saint Mary’s, Gillian holding my right hand and Karen my left. Dulcie’s face lighting up like a sun, and almost rushing to us to kiss Gillian, and hug Karen and me. “I’m so happy for you! Have you got a date yet?”

Gillian glanced at me. “Not yet, but I’m thinking ‘soon’.”

I nodded. “We need to visit family.”

I think a shadow passed over Dulcie’s face, but, “Quite right,” she said. “Not much call for weddings this time of year. Just give me a nod.”

That afternoon, we visited Gillian’s late husband’s parents. I was greeted with a friendly smile, Karen and Gillian with hugs. “Helen, Bob, I’d like you to meet Rick Bennett. We met – Karen found him – at Saint Mary’s. Rick, Helen and Bob Marshall, Roger’s parents.”

They were, I supposed, in their late fifties, but clearly very fit. “Welcome to our home, Rick. If Karen approves of you, surely we do too.”

We chatted easily. It was only my professional background that permitted me to realise just how adroitly they’d explored my personality, intelligence, ethics and faith. Karen wasn’t neglected in this; they obviously adored the little girl. But Karen is ... how can I put it? Not self-contained, exactly. You’ve seen how she relates to people and she loves her paternal grandparents, but she occupied herself most of the time with various toys, paper and pencil, a little computer which seemed to be teaching her Spanish or maybe Latin – I couldn’t really make it out at all clearly. But every so often she’d approach her grandfather or grandmother with something and they’d pay attention to her for a few minutes, then she’d be off again. Late in the afternoon, as I was thinking it was time to be leaving, Helen left the room and reappeared with an old-fashioned tea-trolley laden with an old-fashioned English Tea; sandwiches, scones, cakes, a large tea-pot, small plates and matching bone-china cups and saucers. It wasn’t something entirely foreign to me; my own grandparents would have done much the same. Anyway, it was obvious we’d be staying well into the evening, and we did.

When it was obviously time to get Karen home for bed, the ladies left the room first and Bob held my arm to detain me briefly. “We’re delighted Gillian has found you,” he said, “and delighted you’ve both found faith at Saint Mary’s. We have a lot of respect for Dulcie...” he hesitated, “it’s Richardson, now, isn’t it? She was Hanson when we first met. Anyway. We’d be at Saint Mary’s ourselves if we weren’t so established at Fullbridge. But I want you to know you’ll be welcome here any time.”

So that was most satisfactory. I walked back with Gillian and Karen, but, reluctantly, said I needed to return to Tranquillity. “Bastet won’t be happy with me anyway, but I do need to check on the boat as well.”

The cat ignored me until bed-time. When I sat with my night-time beverage, biscuit, and a little packet of cat treats, she jumped up onto the seat next to me and stared at me until I offered her a fish-shaped, odorous miniature biscuit, which she delicately accepted, crunched, and waited for another. The seriousness of any perceived transgression on my part is measured in the number of treats necessary to placate her; in that case, three. She then curled up next to me and, when I went to bed, climbed up and burrowed under the duvet with me, purring.

Monday I called my mother and arranged to visit at the weekend. “Three of us,” I told her. “My fiancée, her nine-year-old daughter, who is delightful, and myself.”

“Fiancée, is it?” Surprise coloured her voice. “Sudden?”

“We’ve known each other for quite a while, but we both needed to work some things out.”

“Of course.” My mother understood immediately, at least my need to work things out.

But before we went home to Peterborough, Gillian and I, sans Karen, called on Gillian’s parents. Now, while a little nervous, I can’t say I was really worried, but ... Let’s just say I only knew the Gillian who’d been changed by the accident and her subsequent interactions with Dulcie and some others. It was immediately clear that they would always be ‘Mister and Missus Carr’. They were scrupulously polite, while clearly conveying the opinion (unspoken) that a burnt-out former nurse, living in a boat and working part time as a counsellor, was not really of the same social strata as themselves. Karen was not mentioned. On the way back, Gillian apologised. “I thought they might be, um, negative, but I didn’t want to make you nervous. Anyway, don’t worry. We don’t need to have anything to do with them beyond social niceties.”

“They didn’t mention Karen? I thought they’d want to see their granddaughter?”

“They’ve never forgiven us for presenting them with Karen, instead of a boy.”

“But that’s...” I struggled for words. “I mean, Karen is such a lovely little girl. How could anyone not love her?”

“Well, there we are. Perhaps you have some idea of what I was like before Roger died.”

Saturday, the next day, they picked me up from the boatyard and, suitably equipped with weekend bags, we set off for Peterborough.

A little diversion, here. My parents, much as I love them, had me late; they are quiet, reserved, old-fashioned. I didn’t anticipate any problem, but likewise didn’t quite know how they’d take Gillian. I was pretty sure Karen would charm them, so, no; I wasn’t worried.

Gillian parked in the drive. Dad would never permit his cherished, 1960 three litre Ford Zephyr to stand outside. We walked to the door which opened as we got there. I was shocked when Mum stepped out and wrapped me up in a hug; more so when I looked in her eyes and realised they were glistening with tears. “Well!” She announced. “Introduce us!” Shocked? I couldn’t remember being hugged by my mother, though I’m sure I was as a child. Dad was more conventional, though he was smiling as we shook hands.

I stepped aside and Gillian stepped into the crook of my arm, Karen holding her other hand. “Mum, Dad, I’d like you to meet Gillian Marshall, my fiancée, and her daughter Karen.”

Gillian had to let go of Karen’s hand in order to shake hands, but she, too, was wrapped up in a warm hug by Mum, who murmured, “Welcome, dear. You’re very welcome,” then squatted to greet Karen. “My dear, you are so pretty.”

Karen leapt into her arms – almost knocking her onto her back in the process, but not quite – and a tear trickled down my mother’s cheek. I could not remember my mother ever showing overt emotion before. It was a minute or so before Mum was together enough to invite us in and I noticed Dad had to offer Mum an arm to help her up.

Mum had soup on for lunch, and Gillian went to the kitchen with her, while I sat in the lounge with Dad. “I don’t think we’ve really got anything to interest you,” he said to Karen, who was gazing up at the bookshelves.