"He knew I wanted it. I told him myself. He said he'd already spoken to someone else-obviously you. He must think a lot of you."
"That doesn't follow," she said. "He thought I could do the job, that's all."
"If it were me, I'd do it on computer."
"I'm sure you'd do it brilliantly, Burton, and I expect your turn will come."
"Have you got a computer?"
"No."
"The rector has. I've seen one in his study up at the rectory. He could let you use it."
"Maybe, but I'd rather work from home."
"It's easier on the computer."
"It's easy, anyway, or I wouldn't have taken it on," she said, irritated by his manner.
"Have you met the bank manager yet?"
"Look, I don't need you to tell me how to do the job, Burton. I'm sure it's kindly meant, but I happen to believe the most important part of being a treasurer isn't knowing how to add up columns or use a computer or talking to bank managers. It's to be independent of everyone, whether it's the rector or the other members of the PCC or someone like yourself with a professional training in accounts."
They'd reached her cottage. She added, "Thanks for your help with the washing up." Then she put her key in the lock and went inside without looking back.
Twelve
The reek of curry was overpowering. She went straight to the kitchen and carried the casserole dish to the toilet and flushed away what was left. Then returned and ran water over the dish, switched on the fan over the hob and opened all the windows. A few squirts of air freshener helped, but it would be hours before she could feel the house was her own place.
The television was blaring some police programme, and Gary wasn't watching. She could hear him clumping about upstairs.
She called up that she was back and about to put on a kettle.
If he answered, it was indistinct. She switched on and got out the mugs. Personally she fancied tea at this time of the evening. She turned down the volume on the television and switched to the news, and watched without taking much in while the water came to the boil.
She called upstairs again. "Tea, or coffee?"
No answer.
"Gary."
She thought she heard him vomiting. She knew if she went up there to see him she would just get sworn at.
She made the tea and left it to brew. Collected his dishes and cutlery from the other room and washed them.
Vomiting was an understatement, judging by the noise from the bathroom.
The tea would be too strong if she left it, so she poured herself one and turned up the television again to shut out Gary.
Before the news came to an end she heard the boards in the bedroom creak. Better face it now, she thought, and went up to him.
The bedroom smelt vile. He was groaning, curled in a foetal position on the bed, still in his clothes. "God, I feel terrible. What was in that bloody curry?"
"The usual things. Can I get you something? Water?"
"Yeah. My mouth is on fire."
By the time she'd fetched a jug and a glass from downstairs he was back in the bathroom, retching. This was shaping up to be some night, she thought.
When he came out, he could hardly walk straight. "Feel giddy," he said. "L-legs won't hold me up."
She took his arm and steered him to the bed. "I'd better phone for the doctor."
"Don't want a doctor." He made a strange hissing sound that became the start of: " 's only a sodding curry. Where's that wa … wa …?" He sat on the edge of the bed and gulped some down. "Can't even swallow … Throat hurts. Bur … burning … right down … g-gullet." The words had to be forced out. "Pain in the gut… unbeliev-"
"Don't talk, then. Lie down and rest."
"S-s-spinning round."
"Sit up if you want, then."
"Whatyersay? Can't hear you."
"Sit up. I'll get an extra pillow."
"Flaming hell." He tried to get off the bed, and his legs folded under him. She grabbed him around the waist and helped him back, ramming a pillow behind him.
She removed his shoes. "What were you drinking tonight- pure alcohol?"
He shook his head.
"Stay put, Gary. If you need to be sick, I'm getting a bucket."
"Ri…"
Time to call the doctor, she thought, whatever he says. He was getting more incoherent by the minute.
When she went back with the bucket, he had tipped sideways off the pillow and seemed unable to get himself upright. She spoke to him and he mouthed words, but no sound came out.
She ran downstairs and phoned Dr. Perkins at home. The old doctor-the only one in the practice she wanted for this-told her he was off duty and somebody else was on call for emergencies.
She wasn't going to settle for anyone else. Working at the health centre entitled her to this favour, surely. "You saw him the other day, doctor. He's much worse than he was then. He's very ill indeed, and I'm worried, dreadfully worried. I've been out at the harvest supper and I came back and found him in a terrible way. I think it's some kind of stroke. He can't speak. Please come."
He said he would.
She went back to Gary. He was lying as she had left him, taking noisy gasps of air, saying nothing. She tried tidying the mess of the bedclothes. She told him Dr. Perkins was coming. It didn't seem to register.
She had no idea how long it was before the doorbell rang. Gary was a dreadful colour and had lost the power of speech altogether.
Dr. Perkins got nothing coherent from him. He bent over him and listened to the breathing. Lifted one of his eyelids. Tried the stethoscope, and seemed to take an age making up his mind.
"When you first got in, was he able to speak?"
"Yes, he was fully conscious."
"Did he speak of a pain across the chest? Difficulty breathing?"
"A pain, yes. Severe pain."
"Laboured breathing?"
"You can hear him, can't you?"
Dr. Perkins nodded. "I'm afraid it's the heart."
"Angina?"
He shook his head. "More serious this time. Help me sit him up."
They propped him against the pillows at a better angle. The doctor rolled up Gary's sleeve and gave him an injection. That horrible, noisy breathing calmed a little. "Stay with him, please. I'm going to use your phone."
She sat by the bed, staring at her unconscious husband. His body twitched or convulsed a couple of times.
"I've called the ambulance," the doctor said when he came back. He felt for a pulse. Used the stethoscope again.
Gary was silent, his eyes closed. He was ominously still.
Suddenly Dr. Perkins thrust away the pillows and dragged Gary quite roughly to a flat position and began thrusting the heel of his palm against the lower sternum.
Cardiac massage.
Rachel couldn't bear to stay in there. "I'll look out for the ambulance."
She stood by the open front door waiting, looking along the lane for the flashing blue beacon. How long did they take to answer emergencies? After some time-and still no ambulance- she was aware of a hand on her arm. Dr. Perkins drew her inside, away from the door.
"Is he…?"
"Gone, I'm afraid."
"Gone? Dead, you mean?"
"Cardiac failure. I tried all I could."
"Oh, God. I can't believe this is happening." She felt numb.
"Is there someone who can be with you? Someone I can call? A neighbour?"
She had a thought, and dismissed it. She couldn't ask for Otis at this time. She gave Cynthia's name.
He called Cynthia. He also made other calls, cancelling the ambulance and ringing the mortuary instead.
It was over, then, her marriage to Gary. She was a widow now.
Dr. Perkins made her some fresh tea, heavily sweetened, and asked her questions about the onset of Gary's heart attack. She tried to recollect what had happened since she got back from the harvest supper. It all seemed remote in time already, as if it had happened to someone else. "I came in about nine, because the news was coming on. He'd left the television on and he was upstairs, ill, being sick and complaining of pains."