‘So glad you could make it,’ he smiled, and nodded over Yulian in his carry-cot. The baby was awake, his round eyes moving to and fro. The vicar chucked him under his chubby chin, said, ‘Young man, it’s always a good idea to be early for one’s christening, punctual for one’s wedding, and as late as one can get for one’s funeral!’ Then he peered frowningly at the door.
The freak gust of wind had disappeared, taking its confetti with it. ‘What happened here?’ the old man lifted his eyebrows. ‘That’s odd! I had thought the bolt was home. But in any case, it takes a wind of some power to slam shut a door heavy as this one. Perhaps we’re in for a storm.’ At the foot of the door a bolt dragged squealingly along the groove it had worn in old stone flags, and thudded down into its bolthole as the vicar gave the door a final push. ‘There!’ He wiped his hands, nodded his satisfaction.
Not such a boring old fart after all, all three thought the identical thought as he led them inside and up to the font.
In his time, the old clergyman had baptised Georgina; he’d married her, too, and was aware that she was now a widow. This was the church her parents had attended for most of their declining years, the church her father had attended as a boy and young man. There was no need for long preliminaries, and so he began at once. As George and Anne put the cot down, and as Georgina took up Yulian in her arms, he began to intone: ‘Hath this child been already baptised, or no?’
‘No,’ Georgina shook her head.
‘Dearly beloved,’ the vicar began in earnest, ‘foreasmuch as all men are conceived and born in sin – ‘
Sin, thought Georgina, the old man’s words flowing over her. Yulian wasn’t conceived in sin. This had ever been a part of the service that got her back up. Sin, indeed! Conceived in joy and love and sweetest sweet pleasure, yes – unless pleasure were to be construed as sin . . .
She looked down at Yulian in her arms; he was alert, staring at the vicar as he mumbled over his book. It was a funny expression on the baby’s face: not quite vacant, not exactly a drool. Somehow intense. They had all kinds of looks, babies.
‘. . . that thou wilt mercifully look upon this child; wash him, sanctify him with the Holy Ghost; that he, being – ‘
The Holy Ghost. Ghosts had stirred under those stirless trees on the cruciform hills, but in no way holy ones. Unholy ones!
Thunder rumbled distantly and the high stained glass windows brightened momentarily from a far flash of lightning before falling into deeper gloom. A light burned over the font, however, sufficient for the vicar’s eyes behind their thick lenses. He shivered visibly as he read his lines, for suddenly the temperature had seemed to fall dramatically.
The old man paused for a moment, looked up and blinked. His eyes went from the faces of the three adults to the baby, paused there for a moment, blinked rapidly. He looked at the light over the font, then at the high windows. For all his shivering, sweat gleamed on his brow and upper lip. ‘I . . . I . . .’ he said.
‘Are you all right?’ George was concerned. He took the vicar’s arm.
‘A cold,’ the old man tried to smile, only succeeding in looking sick. His lips seemed to stick to his teeth, which were false and rather loose, and he was immediately apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, but this is not really surprising. A draughty place, you know? But don’t worry, I won’t let you down. We’ll get this finished. It just came on so quickly, that’s all.’ The sick smile twitched from his face.
‘After this,’ said Anne, ‘you should spend what’s left of the weekend in bed!’
‘I believe I will, my dear.’ Fumblingly, the vicar went back to his text.
Georgina said nothing. She felt the strangeness. Some-thing was unreal, out of focus. Did churches frown? This one was frowning. It had been hostile from the moment they’d arrived. That’s what was wrong with the vicar: he could feel it too, but he didn’t know what it was.