A Blessing In Disguise (18 page)

‘Quite sure!' Becky said.

‘I can confirm she hasn't played it before,' I told Molly. ‘She must be lucky.'

‘Oh, it's not only luck,' Molly said. ‘You have to have skill as well.'

Becky did win the game, and by a wide margin. It seemed to cheer her up. Nevertheless, as soon as Molly left she chose to go to bed, and in the preparations for bedtime she had nothing to say, though I felt she was less hostile than worried.

‘You would tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn't you?' I asked. She was brushing her teeth and pretended not to hear me.

Afterwards, in my own bed, I lay awake worrying, wondering what to do. Should I have a word with Evelyn Sharp? If so, I thought, I'd not tell Becky. But I don't want to be one of those over-anxious mothers who are always on at the teachers for one thing or another. Is my child doing well? Does she need extra help with her reading? She's very bright, should she be stretched more? And so on. I prefer to leave it to the teachers to get on with the teaching and make the judgements.

Even so, I think this morning as I hover around Becky, making sure she's got everything she needs, that it isn't a matter of teaching – at least I don't think it is. Mrs Hayes is a supply teacher and it's more likely she just got off on the wrong foot with Becky, possibly partly Becky's fault. In the mood she's been in since she came to Thurston she can't be any teacher's dream pupil. All the same, I'll be glad when Mr Beagle gets over his flu.

‘It's going to rain,' I say. ‘I think you should wear your mac.'

‘I'm not going to!' Becky says. ‘If it rains I get wet. So what?'

‘Don't be silly,' I say. ‘You could get a nasty chill!'

‘That would be OK,' Becky snaps as she flounces out of the house, ‘I wouldn't have to go to school!'

I'm due at the Leighs' for the bereavement visit at ten-thirty, so when Becky's left I phone Mrs Leigh to check that she's expecting me. She says yes, she is.

‘How are you?' I ask.

‘I'm all right,' she says in a low voice. ‘Marilyn's with me. I'll see you at half-past ten. Number fourteen is halfway up the Close on the left.'

There's no telling how long the visit will take. It could be as little as half-an-hour – which is unlikely – or last for two hours. I was an hour with the Parkers. It's for as long as Mrs Leigh needs me. I don't want to rush her, nor do I want to outstay my welcome. There are people who don't want a priest around the house for too long, especially if they've never had much contact with the clergy. Once the business part is settled they find it difficult to keep the conversation going. They seem to have the idea that they must talk only about God, the church, and perhaps the weather. The weather is soon disposed of and what is there left to say about God and the church if weddings and funerals are one's only contact?

Branksome Close is about fifteen minutes' walk away, to the east of the village, a group of red brick bungalows probably built in the seventies. Mrs Leigh is looking out for me, I see the curtain twitch as I approach, and by the time I get to the front door she is holding it open.

I follow her into a small hall and through a doorway on the left into the front room of the house. It has the feeling of not being used much: everything spotless, cushions immaculate, as though no-one ever leaned against them, a framed landscape over the fireplace, a vase of artificial poppies on the windowsill. A young woman, I reckon she's about my age, is sitting on the sofa.

‘This is my daughter, Marilyn,' Mrs Leigh says.

We shake hands, I sink into one of the armchairs – they are large and deep, the sort which go back a long way and envelop one and, me being short, this doesn't suit me. I know I shall soon have to inch myself forward and perch uncomfortably on the edge.

‘I'm so sorry to hear of your loss,' I say. ‘I understand Mr Leigh had been ill for some time.'

‘More than a year,' Mrs Leigh says. ‘It was expected, and it was what was best for Ronnie, but it doesn't make it any easier when the time comes.'

‘I know,' I tell her. And I do know, but this isn't the time to explain why. I learnt at the beginning that when one's grief is new and raw and oh, so painful, there isn't room in the heart or the head to think about anyone else's. So now I leave it at those two words: ‘I know', and I expect she'll think, how can she?

‘Well now,' I say, ‘there are a few questions I need to ask, I have some forms to fill in. So shall we deal with those first and then we can go on to whatever else you'd like to talk to me about. The service, hymns and so on.'

Both women nod agreement. So far Marilyn hasn't said a word.

‘So what was Mr Leigh's full name?' I enquire.

‘Maurice Leigh,' his widow says.

‘His full name?' I repeat.

‘That was it. Maurice was his only name. Maurice Leigh.'

‘But I thought . . . you called him “Ronnie”, didn't you?'

‘Oh yes,' she says. ‘That's right! We always called him Ronnie. He'd been called Ronnie from a little baby.'

Now it's not new to me that the name which will go on the certificate is not the one by which the man was known to his family and friends. He can acquire a nickname at any time of life, quite often from his friends, sometimes from the job he does, but how does a man whose legal name is Maurice come to be called Ronnie almost from birth? Maurice to Ronnie is a big jump.

‘I see,' I say – which I don't at all. ‘And how did that happen? When he was a baby, you say?'

‘Six weeks old,' she confirms. ‘I've never known him as other than Ronnie, but my mother-in-law told me the story.'

‘Which was . . . ?'

‘Well, she wasn't all that well after the baby was born, and his birth had to be registered so she asked her husband to go and do this, and he agreed. She was dead set on the name Ronald – there was a film star, Ronald Colman, she admired. Unfortunately, on his way to the registrar's he – Ronnie's dad – met up with a drinking pal who insisted that first they should call in at the pub and wet the baby's head. From the way my mother-in-law told it,' Mrs Leigh says, ‘they drank enough to bath the baby, never mind wet its head. Anyway, the pal says, “What are you going to call the lad?” “Ronald,” says the baby's father. “Oh, that's no name for a little lad!” says the pal. “Call him Maurice – my late father's name, and none better! Finest name in the world!”

‘So they drank to that a few times more,' Mrs Leigh says, ‘and the pal went with the baby's father, and somehow the baby was registered as Maurice.'

‘And what did the baby's mother say to that?' I enquire.

‘She told me she was fit to kill him!' Mrs Leigh says. ‘And if she'd had the strength she thought she would have. But the baby was never spoken of as Maurice; not once, not by anyone, not ever. Till the day he died he was Ronnie!'

‘Well,' I say, ‘I'm glad you've told me this. I always like to find out if the person has been known by some other name, usually a nickname, and if at the funeral I'd referred to your husband as Maurice . . .'

‘No-one would have known who you were talking about. They'd think you were burying the wrong man!' Mrs Leigh says.

She's very amenable about the rest.

‘Harold – that's Ronnie's brother – will say a few words about Ronnie, if that's all right?'

‘Of course it is!' I tell her. ‘About five minutes is usually the best length.' It's advice I always give before a funeral now because I am still haunted by the memory of the one at St Saviour's where I hadn't done so and the speaker was still in full flow after fifty minutes. I could see people looking at their watches. Fortunately, he paused for breath and I was quick enough to rise to my feet and say, ‘Let us pray!'

Mrs Leigh has no ideas about what to have for a reading so I recommend Corinthians, which almost everyone can relate to, especially if the word ‘love' is used instead of ‘charity'. And I'm thankful she doesn't suggest that poem which says the deceased is not dead, he's only in the next room. I happen to think it's not true, it's a false promise. If only Philip
were
in the next room. If only . . . ! Well, I won't go on, but I do feel strongly about it.

‘So what about the music – hymns and so on?' I ask. ‘Was there something your husband particularly liked?'

This can be a tricky area. I once did a funeral at the crematorium in Clipton where the requested music was ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes'. Frank Sinatra singing ‘I Did It My Way' is a common request but I try to be as accommodating as I can.

‘Ronnie wasn't one for music,' Mrs Leigh says. ‘He was tone deaf. But he liked “Abide with Me” because they had it at the cup finals. He loved his football. And I've chosen two more hymns if that's all right.'

I reckon the hymns she's chosen are familiar ones she can remember from way back: ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful' (that will be twice for me in less than a week since the Parkers have chosen it because we sang it at the hospital) and ‘The King of Love My Shepherd Is'. I wish I'd had a fiver for every time I've had ‘The King of Love . . .' at a funeral.

She says that Mr Preston has already shown her where the grave will be.

‘We went down to the village to visit the Chapel of Rest and he happened to be there, so he took us across to the churchyard. We were very pleased with the position and I think Ronnie would have been.'

Marilyn nods assent.

‘He's a very kind man, Mr Preston,' Mrs Leigh says. ‘You're both very kind! Would you like a cup of tea, Vicar? Marilyn would make one in a jiffy.'

Marilyn half rises from the sofa, and I say, ‘Thank you, but I won't at the moment, Mrs Leigh. But don't forget that if you think of anything else, or if you just want me to drop in for a chat, give me a ring.'

‘Thank you, Vicar,' she says. ‘I will.' Then she suddenly looks embarrassed. ‘There
is
one thing . . . I just wonder how much I'll owe you, I mean for the church and everything. And would it be all right if I didn't pay you until I got the insurance money?'

‘Oh, of course!' I say. ‘Sort all that out with Mr Preston. He'll pass on whatever's due to the church. Don't worry about it, Mrs Leigh.'

I decided yesterday that I would give up the Tuesday Eucharist and I phoned Henry Nugent to discuss it with him.

‘It doesn't seem to make sense to me to keep it going for the same people week after week,' I said. ‘And I don't mean exactly give it up. I'll do it on Tuesday mornings instead. They're all four retired people so I expect they could manage the mornings as easily as the evenings. Indeed it should be better, with the winter coming on.'

‘I agree with you,' Henry said. ‘It's never served the purpose for which it started. Of course there'll be complaints – some of them from people who don't go anyway!'

‘Then I'll have to cope with them, won't I?' I said. ‘I'll write to the regulars. I don't doubt Miss Frazer will make an almighty fuss.'

‘Sure to!' Henry said. ‘But she'll have the choice of Tuesday morning, Thursday morning and Sundays.' (Which will give her three opportunities a week of refusing to take communion at my hands, I thought.)

‘It'll have to go before the PCC, of course,' said Henry. ‘But I'm sure there won't be any difficulty there.'

The Parochial Church Council has the right to approve just about everything to do with the church, indeed they and the churchwardens are legally responsible for a great deal of it, especially in the realms of money. We have a meeting every other month and there's one due on Friday evening, which it's already been agreed will be held at the Vicarage so that I needn't make arrangements about Becky.

‘Anyway,' I said to Henry, ‘I think people might prefer coming to the Vicarage rather than having the meeting in the parish hall.'

‘Oh, certainly!' he said. ‘They like a glimpse into someone else's home. It's human nature. And very few people got a glimpse inside this one, over the years. I did, and Richard did, us being churchwardens, but not many others.'

There's a school of thought which says that the Vicarage should be a private place for the Vicar and his family, and there's truth in that, but I believe it should also be a place where any parishioner should feel they'll be welcome if need arises.

I've been looking forward to meeting the couple who wanted to have their baby baptized, not Mr Winterton's grandchild but Mr and Mrs Mortimer and the godparents, but she phoned me to say she wouldn't be able to come, she hadn't been at all well, so could they come the next Wednesday? This suits me very well because I want to talk to the PCC on Friday about changing the times and the form of baptisms, bringing them more into the open, into the Sunday morning congregation, and I'm hoping the Mortimers might be a family who would agree to this. We shall see.

And now as I'm walking back from Mrs Leigh's I think about Becky again – she's never far from my mind – and I wonder should I encourage her to ask some friends from school back to the house? Would it make her happier? I know it's early days but really I'm getting desperate about her unhappiness. I feel that I should know what to do about it, I'm her mother, for heaven's sake! And then I decide that when I get back home I'll phone my mother and ask her advice. And when I've done that, I remind myself, there's a load of post to see to, yesterday's as well as today's. A lot of it's from the diocese. Reports to be read, notices of meetings (there's a Chapter meeting next week which it's my duty to attend), financial statements – there's usually something to do with finance though like every other church we have our own money problems here at St Mary's. There's a letter from a friend in Clipton who suggests coming to see me, and a couple more letters which came just before I left home and I haven't opened them yet. Neither of them are stamped, they've been popped through the door and I think they might be from parishioners. I hope they are, whether they're good or bad. It will show they think I'm alive, and available.