A Blessing In Disguise (13 page)

Dad decides to go down to the Ewe Lamb and for a moment I wonder whether I'll go with him, but decide I won't. I too will have an early night.

I can't get to sleep. In a way, though I've pushed the thought from me, I'm dreading tomorrow – which is all wrong for me because I love Sunday – but I know the reason I'm dreading it is Miss Frazer. What will she do? Will she stay away? I don't think so, I don't think she's going to let this thing drop too easily, if at all. And when she comes will she remain in her seat or will she come up to the altar? If she does, if I see her approaching, I will expect trouble. And if she does refuse to receive will it be done quietly, something between the two of us, or will she make it as public as she can? Will she go all out to involve others? I don't know, do I? And if she does the latter I don't know what effect it will have. It could be devastating – though that is something anyone who has no connections with the church would find it difficult to believe. What is of great importance to one person can be no more than a triviality to another. So some woman refused Communion? So what?

The Honourable Miss Frazer could cause a great deal of trouble if she is powerful enough, but that's another thing I don't know, whether she is looked up to, respected, or whether she's seen as an old bat. There are most likely several opinions of her and if at the Eucharist, at the very height of the action, with others gathered around, she does as she did on Tuesday, then it could grow in no time at all to a split in the parish which is something any incumbent totally dreads. And it wouldn't need a fifty-fifty split to have an effect. Half-a-dozen determined and vociferous opponents could do it, especially as this is a parish which didn't really want a woman priest.

I tell myself I'm being neurotic, and probably I am, but there's nothing I can do about it. It's in God's hands (though he's Miss Frazer's God as well as mine). I must keep calm, and have trust. By the grace of God it might not happen, and if it does then I shall have to decide what to do about it. For now, I must simply put the thought from me.

The last thing I see before me before I fall asleep is a vision of Miss Frazer's hate-filled face.

Sunday is here. I didn't in the end sleep well last night, though it was lovely having Becky home and I am always happy to have my parents. My mother is a practical and calming person, my father is a man who takes everything as it comes. Now that he's retired he has time to read his chosen newspapers cover to cover, and does: everything from the hot news on the front page right through to the racing predictions on the back, from which he picks his horse for the day and sometimes goes to the betting shop to back it. ‘He always ends up losing,' my mother says, ‘but no matter, he has his fun!'

I've taken the eight o'clock service.

‘How many were there?' my mother asks as I walk in.

‘Fourteen. Not bad for a chilly morning,' I tell her. In fact they were quite pleasant as they were leaving, though not effusive, and they didn't linger. How long will it take to get to know them if this is the only contact I have?

A heavenly smell of breakfast pervades the Vicarage. Breakfast is another of my mother's traditions, not to be broken except in times of worldwide crisis.

‘You've just come in at the right time,' my mother says. ‘One egg or two?'

‘One please. Turned over and fried both sides.' I can't bear runny eggs.

My mother gives me a direct look.

‘Venus Stanton! Are you telling me how you like your eggs done? Do you think I haven't been doing them for more than thirty years?'

‘Sorry, Mum!' I tell her.

‘I should think so!' she says, with one expert hand cracking the shell and dropping the contents into the frying pan.

Bacon and egg, fried bread, tomato, a sausage, and today mushrooms in addition. I love it, especially when my mother cooks it and just lays it on the table in front of me.

‘This is heaven, Nan!' Becky says. ‘But of course we only have it when you're here, even though it is my favourite meal.'

‘Because I don't have time to fit it in between two services,' I chip in. ‘Anyway, I didn't know it was your favourite meal. How long has that been the case?' She's seizing the chance to wind me up, and she doesn't even have to speak to me to do it.

‘Where should we sit when we come to church?' my mother enquires.

‘Anywhere you like,' I tell her. ‘I don't suppose there'll be any lack of room.' Becky, I know, should sit with the Sunday School children near the front. Unless there's something special on they go across to the hall for the middle bit of the service then come back later to join in, and receive a blessing, but I've told Becky she needn't do this when her grandparents are here, she can sit with them – at which she seems relieved.

I hurry away again after breakfast. It's not that I'm running late, but I want to spend a few minutes in church on my own before I have to cope with Miss Frazer's arrival. You could say it's a lack of trust on my part, and in any case everyone else I'll meet with this morning is of equal importance with Miss Frazer, but I can't kill my apprehension. So back in church I sit for a few minutes in the Lady Chapel, trying to empty my mind of any fears, after which I leave to vest for the service. An ordinary Sunday, so it's a green stole and I shall wear the one which was given to me by some of the people of Holy Trinity as a leaving present. That done, I stand at the door waiting to greet the people who are just beginning to arrive.

There's definitely not a rush, more of a steady trickle. I doubt if, in the end, there'll be as many here as there were last Sunday. But, heavenly bliss, I recognize a few people and actually remember one or two names.

‘Hello, Mrs Jones!' I say. ‘Everything all right with the Brownies? I haven't forgotten I'm going to pop in to see you. It's just that it's been a busy first week.'

And then, later on, there's Rose Barker, she of the melodious voice. She is wearing a grey suit of which my mother would say ‘It fits where it touches!' and a squashy black felt hat, but who thinks of any of that when she opens her mouth and says, ‘What a beautiful morning!' – because suddenly it is, at least until she passes out of sight into the church. Then after a while comes a slight rush, well not really a rush, just four or five people hurrying up the path because it's almost ten o'clock. I know perfectly well that these are the people who will hurry up the path, out of breath, at the last minute every Sunday, and frequently after the last minute. I just know. I've met them in every church I've ever been in. If I moved this service to half-past ten they would still be late. Or eleven o'clock or even noon, likewise. They dance to their own time. You can set the clock by them as long as you remember to set it late. Apart from that they will turn out to be friendly, charming people.

There is still no sign of Miss Frazer. I wouldn't have thought of her as being unpunctual but on the other hand she could be one of those persons who, aware of their own importance, would think it untoward if they were to arrive at the same time as the common herd. Miss Frazer will probably wait until everyone is seated and I am in my place before making an entrance. There are those priests who would not have the temerity to start the first line of the first hymn until their counterpart of Miss Frazer (not necessarily a woman) is seated. Let me tell you, I am not one of them.

I am about to leave the door – if she comes, she comes – when I see what I think of as Miss Frazer's satellite, the drab little woman who was sitting at the table with her last Sunday and who I have discovered is a widow by the name of Thora Bateman, rushing at great speed up the path. By the time she reaches me she is panting like an exhausted dog for water.

‘I'm sorry!' she gasps. ‘I'm sorry I'm late! It's Miss Frazer. She's ill!'

‘Nothing trivial, I hope!' are the words which spring instantly to mind, though all I say is ‘Oh dear!'

‘I don't think it's anything serious,' Mrs Bateman says. ‘Not really serious. A nasty chest cold, perhaps even the start of flu. She said she's been awake half the night, coughing.'

There is some justice in the world. While I've lain awake in apprehension she's been denied her sleep because of a nasty cough!

‘She's certainly not fit to venture out,' Mrs Bateman adds. So now, since it
is
only a cold, I can allow myself to think, swiftly, ‘The Lord's name be praised!' followed by, ‘God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform!'

‘We'd better go in,' I say. ‘We're late.'

The service goes as smoothly as silk. There aren't as many people as last Sunday, but possibly this is nearer the norm. Sitting with the Nugents are what I take to be two of their grandchildren. They have long blonde hair and bright, mischievous faces and throughout my sermon they giggle at picture books they have brought with them. We pray for Mary Parker and her family. My family sits in the side aisle – trust my father! Becky looks bored to death throughout and doesn't join in any of the responses or the singing. Clearly she is at war with the Church of England as well as with her mother.

When it's time to give communion and I stand there, watching the people come up to the altar to receive, I can't help feeling that I have been given a deliverance. Delivered from the hand of the enemy, probably a very wrong thought at this moment and I don't allow it to linger. In any case I know it's only a temporary deliverance; I will have to face whatever awaits me sooner or later. But not just now, and I thank God.

When the service is over my parents and Becky elect to go home straight away. I know my mother would be pleased to go in to coffee and meet people but it is not my father's scene and still less, at any rate for the moment, Becky's. I think how pleasant it would be if she would accompany me, if I could take her round and introduce her to people, show her off. ‘. . . And this is my daughter, Becky.' It's not to be, certainly not this week. So I tell my family I won't be too long and now I am standing outside the church, bidding farewells. It's chilly and I'm glad I'm well padded under my cassock. Henry Nugent introduces me to his granddaughters. ‘This is Fiona, she's six, and Victoria, she's four.'

‘I shall be five on Wednesday,' Victoria says.

‘But you're not five yet, you're still only four!' Fiona corrects her, and is rewarded with a dirty look from Victoria.

‘Their father is my middle son, Clive,' Henry says. There is no sign of Clive, or of Mrs Clive. ‘Shall we go across for coffee, Vicar?' he adds.

I guess he will always call me ‘Vicar', not because he's unfriendly but because he can't get his tongue around ‘Venus'. Would it help if my name was Mabel?

‘You go ahead, I'll be there in a minute or two,' I promise. I can see Thora Bateman hovering, looking anxious.

‘I don't know whether I should go into coffee or whether I should go straight back,' she twitters. ‘I do enjoy going for coffee but Miss Frazer might be needing me.' (Does anyone call Miss Frazer by her Christian name?) ‘She has no-one coming in on Sundays.'

‘Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't begrudge you a cup of coffee on a cold morning,' I say. ‘Besides, you'll be able to tell her just who was here. I'm sure she'll want to know
that
.'

Thora Bateman seizes the excuse. ‘You're right,' she says. ‘She will!' Then she makes a bold decision. ‘Well, just a quick cup!'

We walk together across to the parish hall.

‘Are you feeling better?' I enquire. ‘I thought perhaps you weren't too well last Sunday.'

‘I have a rather delicate stomach,' she says primly. Then she starts on again about Miss Frazer, how good she is really, what she's done for the church, etc., and I, remembering that Mrs Bateman wasn't there on Tuesday evening and has no idea what Miss Frazer did then, try to think of something polite to say in reply. There must be something, like ‘I believe she's very fond of her dogs,' but I fail to find it. Anyway, if she has a dog I expect it will be a small, snappy one which bites everyone's ankles or a large, lion-sized one which scares the living daylights out of all callers. Either way, it's sure to be a thoroughbred of impeccable pedigree.

I reach the hall door not having said another word, but there's no need to. Mrs Bateman is rattling away twenty to the dozen.

As soon as we walk into the hall I am grabbed by Carla Brown who is sitting at the table nearest the door.

‘There's a seat here, Venus!' she says. ‘Walter, get the Vicar's coffee. No wine on an ordinary Sunday, I'm afraid!'

There is another vacant seat at the same table, which Thora Bateman promptly takes, though I notice Walter isn't commanded to fetch coffee for her. I rather feel that Carla has appointed herself my guardian. I could do worse.

‘It's not often I'm in church two Sundays in succession,' Carla says. ‘Walter will vouch for that.'

There are two others at the table, both women. Carla, breaking through Thora Bateman's dramatic description of Miss Frazer's symptoms, which are beginning to sound like double pneumonia, introduces them to me. Joyce and Alice Dean are twin sisters, I guess in their forties, and as well as being as alike as two peas in a pod, they say ‘Pleased to meet you, Vicar!' in unison. After which Thora Bateman rounds off her description of Miss Frazer's ills and launches on a panegyric of her wonderful qualities as a person.

‘She's a wonderful supporter of St Mary's,' she informs us, though I have the feeling everyone else knows the recital by heart. ‘She gave the new altar in the Lady Chapel, and those beautiful silver candlesticks which stand on it. And then there was the repair of the organ, that cost a pretty penny!' (I have plans, in the fullness of time, to augment the organ, or use it perhaps alternately, with a newly formed music group – keyboard, guitar, recorder, possibly even drums – but I am keeping quiet about that for the moment. It isn't that I dislike the organ or that Mr Blatchford isn't a very competent organist, and of course I shall consult him at every step and turn, but a variety of music would be good.)