She arrives early, just as they open, before the students arrive with their laptops or the families with their sticky-fingered children, while the café is still and silent, except for the occasional grinding of the espresso machine.
Etta goes to Fitzbillies because she isn’t allowed to go to the place she really wants to visit, to the site of first love, the church where she met him. So instead of visiting the church she makes her pilgrimage across town to the café on the corner of Trumpington Street and Downing Street and she takes her mass there: a hot chocolate and Chelsea bun. Then she sits at her pew, the wooden table running the length of the window, closes her eyes and remembers.
After Etta had lied about her sister, she hadn’t been able to look the man—the handsomest young man she’d ever seen—in the eye. Sensing her discomfort, he had changed the subject as they walked. He spoke of the church, the brickwork, the architecture, but Etta hadn’t really been listening. She had watched his hands hanging by his sides, his fingers long and strong. She imagined slipping her own slight fingers between them; perhaps she could hold his hand and he wouldn’t notice, though he might feel the rub of her tiny diamond ring.
A jolt of shock had shivered through Etta then. How could she think such things? Sermons returned to her, the voice of the priest in her ear: in thought as in word as in deed . She knew that to think about adultery was as sinful as the act itself. Not thatthis was adultery, strictly speaking, since she wasn’t married just yet. But she’d never yearned for her fiancé the way she did for this man, this stranger. Not even when she’d first met him. What was happening? She loved Joe. When he’d proposed, she’d been happy. She hadn’t cried, hadn’t wept with joy as many of her friends had, hadn’t had goose bumps or tingles right down to her toes. But that didn’t matter. They simply didn’t have that sort of love. Their relationship was founded on friendship. Which was, Etta’s mother assured her, what mattered most of all. This was what lasted after everything else had gone. So it was all right that when Joe fumbled for her hand in the cinema, she didn’t feel a rush of illicit delight, that when he pecked her cheek after walking Etta home she wasn’t desperate to kiss his lips. Because what they had together—loyalty, kindness and caring—would last for the rest of their lives.
Etta glanced across at the man. Feeling her gaze, he’d turned to her with a smile, his bright blue eyes shining with it, and she’d felt a shock of something that shivered all through her body, right down to her fingers and toes. Etta managed to smile back and he kept talking about St. Raphael, the patron saint of this church. For a moment, as they drifted out of the church together, she closed her eyes and imagined his fingers cupping her cheek, sliding up into her hair as he came forward to kiss …
He caught Etta as she fell, tumbling forward as her foot twisted on a raised paving stone. She held tight to his arms as she pulled herself up, their faces so close that she could feel his breath on her neck.
“I’m sorry,” Etta whispered. “I—”
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” Etta shook her head. “I’m fine, I’m … wonderful.”
“Good. Me too.” He smiled. “Well, now that I’ve saved your life I think I ought to know your name.”
“I’m Etta,” she said.
He had given his in response, but after that Etta just called him the Saint.
Dr. Eliot doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. She doesn’t offer Cora a cup of tea, a biscuit or a benign comment about the weather. She simply sits, reaches for a file, flips it open, then looks up.
“You want to know the particulars of your parents’ case, is that correct?”
Cora nods.
“Specifically, why it was ruled as an accident?”
“Yes,” Cora says, thinking this is what it must be like to
Etta goes to Fitzbillies because she isn’t allowed to go to the place she really wants to visit, to the site of first love, the church where she met him. So instead of visiting the church she makes her pilgrimage across town to the café on the corner of Trumpington Street and Downing Street and she takes her mass there: a hot chocolate and Chelsea bun. Then she sits at her pew, the wooden table running the length of the window, closes her eyes and remembers.
After Etta had lied about her sister, she hadn’t been able to look the man—the handsomest young man she’d ever seen—in the eye. Sensing her discomfort, he had changed the subject as they walked. He spoke of the church, the brickwork, the architecture, but Etta hadn’t really been listening. She had watched his hands hanging by his sides, his fingers long and strong. She imagined slipping her own slight fingers between them; perhaps she could hold his hand and he wouldn’t notice, though he might feel the rub of her tiny diamond ring.
A jolt of shock had shivered through Etta then. How could she think such things? Sermons returned to her, the voice of the priest in her ear: in thought as in word as in deed . She knew that to think about adultery was as sinful as the act itself. Not thatthis was adultery, strictly speaking, since she wasn’t married just yet. But she’d never yearned for her fiancé the way she did for this man, this stranger. Not even when she’d first met him. What was happening? She loved Joe. When he’d proposed, she’d been happy. She hadn’t cried, hadn’t wept with joy as many of her friends had, hadn’t had goose bumps or tingles right down to her toes. But that didn’t matter. They simply didn’t have that sort of love. Their relationship was founded on friendship. Which was, Etta’s mother assured her, what mattered most of all. This was what lasted after everything else had gone. So it was all right that when Joe fumbled for her hand in the cinema, she didn’t feel a rush of illicit delight, that when he pecked her cheek after walking Etta home she wasn’t desperate to kiss his lips. Because what they had together—loyalty, kindness and caring—would last for the rest of their lives.
Etta glanced across at the man. Feeling her gaze, he’d turned to her with a smile, his bright blue eyes shining with it, and she’d felt a shock of something that shivered all through her body, right down to her fingers and toes. Etta managed to smile back and he kept talking about St. Raphael, the patron saint of this church. For a moment, as they drifted out of the church together, she closed her eyes and imagined his fingers cupping her cheek, sliding up into her hair as he came forward to kiss …
He caught Etta as she fell, tumbling forward as her foot twisted on a raised paving stone. She held tight to his arms as she pulled herself up, their faces so close that she could feel his breath on her neck.
“I’m sorry,” Etta whispered. “I—”
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” Etta shook her head. “I’m fine, I’m … wonderful.”
“Good. Me too.” He smiled. “Well, now that I’ve saved your life I think I ought to know your name.”
“I’m Etta,” she said.
He had given his in response, but after that Etta just called him the Saint.
Dr. Eliot doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. She doesn’t offer Cora a cup of tea, a biscuit or a benign comment about the weather. She simply sits, reaches for a file, flips it open, then looks up.
“You want to know the particulars of your parents’ case, is that correct?”
Cora nods.
“Specifically, why it was ruled as an accident?”
“Yes,” Cora says, thinking this is what it must be like to
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