For Philip Elton the good weather was neither here nor there. He found no cause for satisfaction in days of comfortable sunshine, which in no way mirrored his angry and embarrassed mood. The main cause of his embarrassment was the aftermath of Emma’s dinner party. It was not the fact that he had made a fool of himself on the lawn, resulting in his firm rebuff – that was a painful enough experience – but it faded into insignificance beside what subsequently happened. That was the real disaster of the evening.

After he had shot down the Hartfield Drive in the BMW Something-something, Philip had made his way home at considerable speed. The speed limit for most of the journey was either forty miles an hour, where the road was narrow and winding, or occasionally sixty, where it became more substantial. Philip exceeded the limit on both sections, but it was not this that was to prove his undoing. That came when, travelling at a rather low speed in order to negotiate a tricky bend in a lane, he misjudged the curve of the road and ended up in a ditch. No damage was done to the car, and he himself suffered no injury. Had he been given the opportunity to reverse back on to the road he could have extricated himself from the ditch and resumed his journey, with nobody have been any the wiser. He did not get that opportunity, though, for the first car on the scene – just a minute or two after he had toppled into the ditch, was a car from the police station at Holt, driven by Sergeant Tom Mayfield, returning from a call to investigate a burglary attempt in a nearby village. In the passenger seat of the police car was Constable Martin Horsley, who was not only tired but was suffering from toothache caused by an area of sensitivity in one of his teeth.

‘Hello,’ said Sergeant Mayfield as they rounded the corner. ‘What have we here?’

‘A Beemer Something-something,’ replied Constable Horsley. ‘And I don’t think it’s going anywhere. My God, my tooth!’

‘Get yourself to the dentist first thing tomorrow,’ snapped Sergeant Mayfield. ‘And I don’t want to hear any more of your precious tooth. I’m pulling over. That fellow’s lights are still on.’

The two policemen got out of their car and approached the stricken vehicle. As they did so, Philip, who had seen them coming, opened his door and took a deep breath.

‘Thank goodness you’ve turned up,’ he said. ‘I seem to have slipped into this ditch. It’s a tricky corner.’

Constable Horsley shone his torch into Philip’s face. ‘Oh, it’s you, vicar,’ he said. He recognised him as Philip had presided over the funeral of his late uncle. Sergeant Mayfield also knew who he was as they had both spoken at a social-responsibility day at a nearby school.

‘This is a bit of sorry to-do,’ said the sergeant. ‘You been out and about, vicar?’

Relieved to be recognised, Philip was effusive in his explanation. ‘At a dinner party, as it happens. At Hartfield – you know the place – Mr Woodhouse’s house. A jolly good dinner. His cook is Mrs Firhill and her chocolate mousse …’ He stopped. Sergeant Mayfield had taken the torch from Constable Horsley and had played the beam over Philip, from head to toe, as if looking for something.

‘Did you have a drink at all, vicar?’ he asked.

Philip stared at the policeman. ‘A drink?’

‘Yes. Alcohol, you know. Wine, for instance. I’m sure Mr Woodhouse has a good cellar at that big place of his.’

Philip swallowed. ‘A sip or two. With the meal, of course.’

Sergeant Mayfield glanced at Constable Horsley. ‘Of course,’ he said. He then cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, vicar, but there’s a requirement that we breathalyse drivers involved in incidents. It’s the law, you see.’

‘But this isn’t an incident,’ said Philip, his voice wavering. ‘I haven’t hit anything. I just sort of … slipped off the road. It wasn’t my fault.’

Constable Horsley had retrieved the breathalyser kit from the police car and was preparing it for use. ‘If you just breathe into this little tube, vicar. It’s completely painless.’

With fumbling hands, Philip complied. Then he stood by awkwardly while the two policemen considered the result.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Sergeant Mayfield. ‘I’m afraid you’re well over the limit, vicar.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Philip. ‘I really do.’

There was now a note of firmness in Sergeant Mayfield’s voice. ‘Be that as it may, sir, you must accompany us to the station for another test.’

Philip made a strange, moaning sound.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Constable Horsley.

‘My car,’ complained Philip. ‘I can’t leave my car in the ditch.’

‘You can’t drive, vicar,’ said Sergeant Mayfield. ‘You’re in no fit state. We’ll sort the car out later.’

In silence and in misery, Philip accompanied the two policemen to the police car. He sat morosely in the back seat with Constable Horsley, his hands clasped firmly together, his eyes downcast. ‘What will happen to me,’ he asked, ‘if I’m convicted?’

‘You lose your licence,’ said the constable. ‘No driving for a year, I’m afraid.’

‘Most unfortunate,’ added Sergeant Mayfield from the front seat. ‘You being a vicar and all. Most unfortunate all round.’

And it was most unfortunate. Two weeks later, having pled guilty and therefore been fast-tracked through the criminal-justice system, Philip appeared before the local magistrates’ court and was duly fined and banned from driving for a year. The case was fully reported in the local press under the headline: ‘Boozy Rev Revs Up and Ends in Ditch’. Humiliated and ashamed, Philip decided to take three weeks’ leave pending his bishop’s decision on his future. He had a cousin in London who offered to lend him his flat in Notting Hill while he was in the British Virgin Islands. Philip accepted the offer with relief, and sneaked off to the blissful anonymity of London – by public transport. Slowly he began to recover from the embarrassment and self-reproach that the whole incident had caused him, and found himself drawn into a social life organised by friendly neighbours in Kensington Park Road. It was through them that he met, during his second week in London, a woman who was introduced to him as a popular contestant in a television talent show, Look at Me! She was a dancer and Edith Piaf impersonator, although she was blonde and buxom, and not at all like the French chanteuse. She knew the limits of her talent: these were severe, as she could not really sing, least of all in French, which she sang with the American accent that bad British singers for some reason feel they must adopt. She also misunderstood the words, thinking that ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’ was a song about sending one’s apologies for being unable to accept an invitation; she understood very well, though, that her C-list celebrity status was best exploited by finding a man who was capable of supporting her in the style to which she aspired. In conversation Philip had happened to mention the office block in Ipswich as well as the flats in Norwich. She had been listening. He had said nothing about dampness or insulation problems. She was immediately interested.

18

For Emma, the fine summer weather meant the opportunity for a picnic. She had raised this possibility with Mr Woodhouse, who had listened attentively to her suggestion before he asked, in a deliberate and considered way, ‘Why?’

Emma’s reply was equally considered. ‘Because a picnic is what one has in fine weather. Ask anybody, “What do you do on a fine day?” and they will reply, “Why, we picnic, of course.” That’s why I suggested it.’

The sarcasm with which Emma had clothed her response was lost on Mr Woodhouse. ‘But why, Emma? Why? It’s not enough, my dear, to say that’s what people do. People do all sorts of things. The real question is why do it? You can eat the same food – in fact, rather better food – in your own dining room. You don’t get ants in your own dining room. You aren’t subject to the vagaries of the weather.’

‘The weather is absolutely settled,’ interrupted Emma. ‘Look at the sky.’

‘The sky tells us very little, Emma. The isobaric charts reveal the real truth. And I can tell you that they show things brewing up over Iceland. They’ll be having no picnics over in Iceland, I can assure you.’

Emma sighed. There was no point in arguing with her father, who would always produce some good reason not to do anything. The only way to proceed was to proceed.

‘Well, it’s a great pity,’ she said, ‘but I’ve already invited people. We’re committed.’

It was not a lie in the true sense of the word. Emma had invited Harriet – that was true – but she had not invited anybody else. The issue then was whether having invited one person justified the claim to have invited ‘people’. Emma considered this, but only briefly, and only after she had made the statement. She decided that the grammatical distinction between the singular and the plural was now so weak – they being used as a third person singular pronoun, for instance – that it was quite acceptable to refer to a person as people. That disposed of that; what she had said was true.

Mr Woodhouse looked peeved, but only momentarily. His anxieties could shift very quickly, and what had been an overwhelming problem could within minutes, indeed within seconds, become no more than the background to a greater, more pressing issue.

‘But what will we do about the sandwiches?’ he asked. ‘They become limp and soggy so quickly. Have you thought about that yet, Emma? Have you discussed it with Mrs Firhill?’

‘We don’t have to eat sandwiches, Pops,’ said Emma. ‘There are plenty of other things to eat on a picnic. There are those rather nice pork pies – Melton Mowbray pies. People love those on a picnic.’

This had the desired effect, firmly shifting the conversation to dietary matters and away from picnic issues.

Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘Those pies,’ he said gravely, ‘are full of salt. And pork.’

‘Well, they are pork pies …’

‘I know that you like bacon, Emma, but I wish you would eat less of it. I was reading the other day that each slice of bacon you eat takes several minutes off your life.’

‘And years off a pig’s life,’ interjected Emma.

Mr Woodhouse frowned. ‘I don’t see what pigs’ lives have got to do with it.’

Emma did not answer for a while. Then she said, ‘I shall make all the plans. You just attend – that’s all you have to do. You come along and be your usual, cheerful self. That’s what people will want.’

‘Who’s coming?’

Emma composed a quick mental list. ‘The usual suspects,’ she said. ‘The Weston-Taylors, Frank Churchill, la veuve Bates, Miss Bates (yawn), Jane Fairfax (iceberg), George Knightley, Mr Perry (crank) – if you’d like him to come …’

‘Yes, we must invite him,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘He’s very good on wild plants. He knows all their healing properties and he can identify any mushrooms we find.’

‘That will be very useful,’ said Emma. ‘And then there’s Harriet Smith and Mrs Goddard.’

She watched her father’s reaction. ‘Mrs Goddard?’ he said. ‘Do you think she’ll come?’

‘I think she enjoyed that dinner party, and I like her.’ She paused. ‘You like her too, don’t you?’

He looked away. ‘Yes, I like her. She’s … she’s unusual, isn’t she? We don’t get many people like that around here.’

Emma waited for more, but he fell silent. ‘Did you know her quite well?’ she asked.

‘Reasonably well.’

The subject of Mrs Goddard, she judged, was now closed.

Mr Woodhouse suddenly thought of somebody else. ‘What about Philip Elton?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so. And anyway, I think he’s away.’

Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘He was. He’s back now. And I would like to have him there, Emma – I’d like that very much.’

Emma was thinking of the complications of having Philip: she did not want Harriet to be reminded of her attempt at matchmaking, and she did not want to run the risk that the true nature of affairs be revealed. She also felt something to which she was unaccustomed and that was largely unexpected: a niggling sense of guilt. She had given him those large gins and he had subsequently lost his licence and been publicly humiliated. Did he blame her for that?

Mr Woodhouse now explained why he was so keen for Philip to be invited. ‘I feel sorry for that poor man,’ he said. ‘He may not be to everyone’s taste – I’ll admit that I find him a bit on the pompous side – but his heart’s surely in the right place. When Sid had his prostate operation he went to see him in the hospital and offered to pick him up when they discharged him. Sid said that the other patients in his ward didn’t receive any visits from their vicars. They were obviously quite indifferent to their poor parishioners’ prostates.’