Robin's Way 02

It was, of course, Ryan, who was smiling broadly.

"That red beret, just the thing. Suits you Ma'am," he joked. "I thought you might like the Goose and Egg out at Dunhelm, so took the liberty of booking."

It was the most expensive restaurant within twenty miles, a Michelin star and rave reviews in one of the Sunday nationals.

"Sounds like the first of many liberties, Ryan," I laughed.

"That's up to you, and I make it a rule never to tangle with anyone wearing a red beret."

The restaurant lived up to its reputation, and somehow, I felt at ease with him. Yet again, he went the carnivore route, this time guineafowl with a white wine reduction, while, again, I went the vegetarian route, this time pomegranate quinoa salad with kale. The Chardonnay was excellent, but this time he limited himself to the wine, and one glass at that. By the time the waitress brought the cheese and biscuits, we had relaxed into each other's company, and the verbal sparring had stopped.

"Is it a cease-fire?" It was as though he'd read my mind.

"Were we at war, then?" I teased back.

"Only the eternal war of the sexes."

"That," I said with more cynicism than I had meant to show, "ceases only when the man has taken his prey."

"I will take your word on anything to do with praying," he joked, and I enjoyed the pun.

"And Allegra?" I queried, raising the name of his girlfriend.

"She may exemplify your maxim, Robin, but to be accurate, you'd have to add the prefix, 'ex' as that is her status."

"You or her?" I looked him in the eye. A direct question for once, and I signalled I was expecting a straight answer.

"You!" He smiled. I hesitated, not quite knowing what to say. The way he was looking at me made me both uncomfortable and excited; it was a confusing mix.

Seeing that, he added:

"If I want a chance with you, it would be unfair to lead Allegra on, and as she wasn't prepared to wait to see how rural affairs developed, we agreed to end it -- amicably."

Now I was genuinely unsure what to say. Of course, he could be making it all up, how was I to know? But as he thought it worth going there, I could hardly question his good faith unless, of course, I wanted to signal that I was not interested; but was I?

"Don't tell me I have finally reduced you to silence?" His broad smile told me he was anything but sorry if that had been the case.

"I dare say there are many more fish in the sea." I parried back.

"My nets are cast your side of the boat, Robin."

"Are you sure you want to catch a lady Vicar?"

"I didn't bring you here to say I don't want to see you again, so you can assume I do."

"I am flattered," I said, hesitating to go further.

I was not in the mood for coffee, so ordered some fennel tisane, while he, as usual, had an espresso.

As we settled into the easy chairs, he stretched out his hand. I did not pull mine away. His hand was cooler than mine and strong; I liked the firmness. His eyes met mine.

"Let me get this out now before I regret it."

I looked at him questioningly.

"You know what I would want, Robin, but I can wait until you are ready to deliver."

I heard myself laugh, though did not consciously do so.

"I am an old-fashioned girl," Ryan, "and if you want modern mores, I'm not the girl for you."

"You'd be surprised. I like that you are not modern. We have time."

"All the time in the world," I added.

"I hope," he said, squeezing my hand, "that it won't take that long. Would it be intrusive of me to ask if you are a virgin?"

I felt myself blush vilotently.

"Yes, I would."

"I'd win, though, if I place a bet on that horse."

"I think it may be time to go," I said, wanting to shift away from what was becoming an uncomfortable conversation.

"Of course," he said, sweetly.

He paid, again, and helped me in with my coat.

"I do like that beret, but I am afraid I lied earlier?"

I began to ask how but discovered that he was not averse to tangling with someone wearing a red beret as he pulled me to him and kissed me. Shivers shot through me, I tingled in places I didn't usually and found my lips opening. His tongue felt its way in, and I found myself on tiptoe. It was everything those novels said it should be.

I felt his hand on my bottom, and then, given the length of my skirt, I felt it slide underneath, cupping my knickers. I don't know how long we stayed like that. My arms clung round his neck, and I felt myself pulled into him, his hands on my bum. He felt warm, he smelt delicious. After what seemed an age, we disengaged. He looked at me.

"A foretaste. You have a delicious arse."

As he pulled away, I was breathless, unsure what to do, or even what I wanted. But I did know what I did not want.

"Why, thank you kind sir," I joked, getting into the car as he held the door open for me.

I had never felt this way before. I was in a daze as he drove me back. As I unfastened my safety-belt he leaned over, and again our lips met. For a moment I struggled with the feelings surging through me; but I held firm.

"Thank you," I said, "that was ...."

"That words fail you tells me more than you could say, Robin. Let me ring you tomorrow, and see whether by then words have come."

He kissed me once more.

As I watched him drive off, I realised that for the first time in my life, I was facing a real challenge to my principles. As I hung my beret up, I giggled to myself. It was all very well him tangling with a red beret wearer, but was I up to resisting?

The next month or so taught Ryan a lot about dating a vicar. May, June, and July are the busiest months of the year for weddings, so the idea of a Saturday afternoon spent at the beach, one he often floated, was knocked on the head. Sunday, with seven churches to cover, even with help, was pretty exhausting, and by the time Monday came, I was pretty well flat out with fatigue. It must have been fairly serious from his point of view I thought, as he kept coming round.

My favourite of all the churches was Little Linstead. It had originated as a chapel of ease and had somehow survived the steep decline in congregations since the 1960s. I suspected this was because it was on the Surtees estate and his lordship liked having his own church, even if he and the family were not the most assiduous attenders. It felt like the orphan of our Deanery, as it got only one Communion service and one evensong a month.

I had always loved evensong, not the choral evensong so beloved of so many Radio 3 listeners, but the plain-spoken evensong of the Book of Common Prayer. There may only have been myself, Miss Bennet and her companion, and Mrs. Rooke there, but you could feel that God was there too. As I gave the final blessing, I felt an air almost of elation. Miss Bennet smiled as we shook hands:

"You seem very happy Miss Topham. I have to say, as you know, I was not in favour of ordaining women back in the nineties, but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and Susan and yourself do us very well."

I thanked her. Her sentiment was not uncommon in this backwater. It was nice to hear, and as I disrobed back in the vestry, I reflected how lucky I was.

One of the things I loved about Little Linstead was that I could walk it. There was a footpath from the Old Rectory across the wheatfields straight to the Church. It was half an hour if I dawdled a little, and on this beautiful summer's evening, why wouldn't I? I loved the swoosh of my cassock against the wheat as I walked. God was in His Heaven, and all was right with the world. I stood and listened to the birds.

High overhead murmurations flew. The quietness enveloped me.

As I came to the wooden footbridge across the ditch, I became conscious of a noise from beyond the hedge. Who on earth could be walking that way of a Sunday evening? There was no barking dog, so that ruled out the usual suspects. The sun was low now on the horizon and dazzled my eyes, so all I could see as I approached the bridge was a tall, imposing figure, silhouetted by the light.

"Robin, finished early I see!"

It was Ryan.

For a moment I was overwhelmed, so much so that I yielded to the cliché -- and fell into his arms. For a moment the world was as dead to me as I was to it; all that existed was the beating of our hearts. He held me for seemed forever (and must, in fact, have been all of five minutes). The warmth and the safety were infectious, and I felt for a moment as though all I wanted to do was to rest like this.

"Well, madam, this will never do," he joked, pulling away with every show of reluctance. "We need to get you back to the Old Rectory where Cook has supper on the go."

As I had been anticipating a scratch supper of whatever was not too out of date in my fridge, this was indeed welcome news, and I held his hand tight as he guided me across the wheatfields to the Old Rectory.

It was warm enough, and light enough, for us to dine out. He was charm itself, and I began to relax.

"Must you go back?" He looked at me quizzically.

I knew what answer I would give, but was tempted for a moment.

"You know the answer," I told him.

"Can't blame a man for asking. You are so delicious, Robin. And, by the way, don't worry, I am a gentle soul," he jested.

The kiss he gave me as he dropped me off home took my breath away. This, I reflected as I stripped off my clericals, was getting to be like one of those books my stepmother used to read. I was not even sure I liked men, and I certainly was not looking for one. Despite his comment about being "gentle," I was beginning to feel a little like his prey.

Then the phone went. Who on earth?

"Robin here,"

"Is that the vicar?" The voice at the other end sounded anxious. I confirmed it was and asked how I could help.

"It's difficult," said the voice, "I need to talk about something confidential with someone who isn't the police."

"I would be happy to talk. Do you want to talk on the phone, or would face to face be better?"

"I don't live far away; I can be with you in ten minutes."

"Can I ask what it's about?"

"Yes, yes, of course, it's about my employer's son, Ryan Surtees."

The line went as silent as my heartbeat. The buzz of the broken line echoed through the room.

I was still in shock when I opened the door, but this was where professional training came into play. I was glad that I had not had too much to drink. The woman was obviously nervous. I took her coat and ushered her into the study.

"Can I get you anything to drink?"

"If it is no trouble, I'd appreciate some tea."

Her accent, and the way she'd phrased the answer confirmed what I had intuited on the phone, she was eastern European, from her appearance, Slavic. She had high cheekbones and fine features, she was taller than me and blonde, at a guess I'd have put her in her early twenties if that.

"Do you want to come to the kitchen while I make us a pot?"

She came with me.

"So," I said, breaking the ice that was beginning to form, "I'm Robin, and you are?"

"Irina," she replied, "I work at the Old Rectory, I came over on one of Mr. Ryan's programmes."

My questioning, as I prepared a pot, established that she had been in the country since Easter. She was Ukrainian.

As she sat, I noticed how very short her skirt was -- and how attractive she was. I asked if she felt comfortable sharing her concern with me and asked if she was sure she did not want someone else to be with us. She shook her head vigorously.

"Do you feel able to tell me what is concerning you?" I asked, trying to remember my training in how to deal with people who came to you as Irina had. It must have worked, as she began to relax.

"It's Mr. Ryan."

"What is?" I asked, trying to keep the strain out of my voice. It occurred to me that I might not be the right person to hear this and that given my involvement with Ryan, I might actually be the wrong person; but Irina was ready to talk, so me it would have to be.

She looked a little embarrassed.

"I don't want you thinking I am some kind of slut," she began, "I like men, and I liked what Mr. Ryan, and I were doing at the start, and that's why I don't want to go to the police, it began with my consent and if it is his word against mine, no one is going to believe a Ukrainian girl against a man in his position."

By now my heart was beating fast and my stomach was doing gymnastics. It was all I could do to repress the urge to run to the bathroom and vomit. I could feel myself trembling. Was it really only a few hours since I had been in his arms?

"I don't know if you know about Mr. Ryan's business?"

I confirmed I knew something, knowing that I was about to know far more than I wanted to know.

"You know that he is a trustee, is that the word, for a refugee charity?"

I nodded, I did know that, and liked him for it. I suddenly felt horribly numb.

"My family were displaced by the Russian invasion, and we were helped by his charity. I have been working for it for the last year and was invited over to help interpret at the recent conference. Mr. Ryan asked me to stay for a while to help set up further meetings with the Russians."

I remembered my training. Listen, let them tell their story in their way, at their pace, it was their story, your job was to listen. I topped up her cup, and mine, as she proceeded.

It had been, she said, after the second meeting with the Russians that "it" had happened. I wondered, idly, when that had been, but concentrated hard on her. The conference had finished late, and Mr. Ryan had booked them rooms "just in case." He bought her dinner as a thank you and then one thing had led to another, and that had led them to a night of passion.

Yes, I thought, sick to my stomach, she was just his sort, young, pretty, and lively -- but also vulnerable. The training had clearly taken, as I concentrated grimly.

It has, she said, all been "good" until recently. Just over a month ago things had changed.

"Mr. Ryan", as she called him, had been courteous and not too pressing, but, as she put it, "when he stopped spending time in London so much" his demands had escalated. It had come to a head on Friday last when two Russian guests had stayed at the house. Lord Surtees was away, and Mr. Ryan had suggested she join them to "help lighten the evening." To her shock, at the end of the evening, when she was, as she admitted, rather drunk, he had offered her "services" to the Russians. Her attempts to say "no" had been met by him with a firmness which had shocked her. His words as she reported them sent a shudder through me: "you are bought and paid for, and you are my whore, so you'll fuck who I tell you to." So, feeling she had no choice, she had done as he told her. The following morning he had paid her an extra £1000 and told her that she'd be expected to "join the other girls in town" next week -- that is tomorrow.

"What should I do?"

That was a very good question. It was also the question I was asking myself.

When she finished there was silence; me from the shock, her from exhaustion. I knew one big thing and said it at once.

"Irina you must stay here tonight. You cannot go back to the Rectory; it is not safe."

"I don't want to go to the police, I don't trust them. They will take his side."

She began to cry. I held her hand and stroked it.

"I won't do that, Irina, as long as you stay with me. I know some people who can help you -- and they are not the police and will respect your wishes."

She stopped crying. I handed her a tissue to blow her nose into.

"These people, they are good?"

I noticed that her accent became more pronounced the tireder she became. I assured her that they were good people. To my relief, she agreed to stay. I told her to take a shower while I made up the spare bed. I left a spare dressing gown on the bathroom door, telling her it was there, along with a spare nightdress.

She came down, freshly scrubbed and fragrant. I could see why Ryan had fallen for her; she had a gamin-like charm. Without her makeup, she looked much younger. She smiled, for the first time.

"You are very kind to me."

"I am a Christian, Irina, it's what we do. But I am also a woman, and my blood boils at what happened to you. I have a question though, you mentioned 'other women' in London, what did you mean?"

I had a horrid idea what she was going to tell me, and part of me did not want to hear it. I thought I knew Ryan. Yes, he was a bit pushy, rather full of himself, but he was also funny and, I had thought, a good man underneath the braggadocio. Now, well now this strange woman had come from nowhere to turn my life upside down. Interestingly, it did not occur to me to question her bona fides. It was patently obvious that she was sincere -- and very scared.

I had poured a small Scotch and water for myself, and asked if she wanted one: she nodded. As I poured, she answered my question. There were, she said, houses in London where refugee women were kept where men paid for sex. She was being sent to be with them, Mr. Ryan was driving down there first thing in the morning.

My mobile went. It was Ryan. I switched it off.

"It's okay," I explained, "just a friend, and I don't have time for that now." The last thing she needed was to hear me talk to Ryan. The last thing I needed was to talk to Ryan. My phone pinged. It was a text:

"Exhausted you did I, darling? Off to L 2moro, xxx R" Two hours ago I'd have responded enthusiastically, but then two hours ago I'd have taken the call breathlessly. But two hours ago was before my private life imploded.

I showed Irina to her room. I put her clothes into the washing machine, so she'd have them clean for the morning. As I took them, she touched my arm -- she looked at me with tears in her eyes: "Thank you," she said, before embracing me. I could feel the tension leave her body -- and feel my own tense up.

The contrast with the last hug I had experienced, the one with Ryan, brought tears to my eyes. I had not known whether I was safe with Ryan. Irina felt she was safe with me. Now, I thought, as I left her, to make sure that I did not let her down as I had been let down by Ryan.

As soon as I got back to my study, I phoned the hotline. It was manned all hours of the day and night, though I had feared that Sunday after ten might be a test too far -- but they did not let me down.

"Clewer Trust, how can we help?"

I explained who I was and why I was calling. By sheer good fortune, the woman at the other end remembered meeting me a few years previously at the launch of the Trust, which helped. She was pleased with my advice to Irina and suggested that they should send someone round to talk with her in the morning, though, given the time and where we were, it was more likely to be in the afternoon. She confirmed with me that Irina was safe and that I was in no danger. I was relieved.

The Clewer Trust was an organisation through which the Church worked to combat the evils of modern slavery. For the most part, my limited contacts since I had been in Suffolk had been to do with gangmasters and rural labourers, though I knew colleagues elsewhere who had dealt with cases like Irina's. All of that was easy enough, at one level. What was not easy at any level was what I was going to do about Ryan.

I suddenly felt physically sick. Feeling myself starting to shake, I ran to the bathroom and retched into the toilet until I could be sick no more. After flushing away the detritus, I brushed my teeth and used copious amounts of mouthwash; gosh, that took me back to my teenage years.

I settled myself and went to my home altar, lighting the beeswax candles. As I prayed the opening lines of Compline, it was with a sense of irony I spoke the words about "a quiet night and a perfect end." I did not reply to his text.

I woke with the sunrise, which at the time of the year meant just before five in the morning. As I drew my curtains I saw a solitary red sports car drive past -- it was Ryan's car -- he was on his way to London.