A Blessing In Disguise (2 page)

My mother agreed entirely with Philip and she was even more confused.

‘What's it all about?' she'd said. ‘You certainly don't get this tendency from me, nor from your father. There's nothing like it on either side of the family. Except . . .' she paused, suddenly remembering, ‘there was your father's Uncle George who was a missionary in Africa, but not C of E. He was a Baptist. And we only saw him the once, when he came home on leave. You can't have been more than four then.' She shook her head doubtfully.

‘I do remember Great-uncle George,' I told her. ‘He took a large white handkerchief out of his pocket and tied knots in it so that they looked like animals. Then he somehow made them into shadows on the wall, moving as if they were alive. He said it was how he amused little children in Africa.'

‘That can't be it,' my mother said testily. ‘Animal shadows on the wall can't account for your madness and I don't know what can!'

‘I'm not in the least bit mad,' I said.

In the end she reluctantly came round, my father trailing compliantly after her. But what was more important, so did Philip. One day when he came home from work he said, ‘Seeing that you're not to be moved an inch, and much more because, although I still don't fully understand, I love you, I've made the decision to support you.'

I was overcome. I rushed into his arms and burst into tears. ‘I promise you'll be happy!' I said. ‘We'll all be happy!'

It was not a giving-in on his part, it was a positive decision. He was never a weak man. And being Philip he did what he'd promised, right through my training, my time as a deacon and eventually my ordination to the priesthood. He never failed me, not once. He was always there when I needed him. He looked after Becky at the times neither I nor my mother was able to do so. He listened to the new problems which confronted me. On the few occasions when I needed to – I am not the crying sort – he let me cry on his shoulder. And at night he held me in his arms and we made love as if nothing or no-one else in the world existed.

But now, when I need him as never before, he isn't here.

Deliberately, I turn away from the sight of my family before it proves too much for me. The church is rather more than half full, and almost all of them are strangers to me. I spot the churchwardens, Henry Nugent and Richard Proctor whom I do know. I have met with them many times since the idea of St Mary's was put to me. They, more than anyone else, have been my link with the parish. I reckon Henry is in his seventies. Thick white hair, a round face, bright blue eyes. He has the good looks of a man who would be perfect for a grandfather in a TV ad. Indeed I know he is a devoted grandfather.

‘I've been waiting for the new Vicar,' he told me, ‘hanging on until I could hand in my cards. I've been a churchwarden here for fifteen years, good years, but it's time to finish.' He's right about that. It's something I won't encourage. I don't mean Henry personally, I mean fifteen years in the job.

Richard Proctor is different. I guess he's in his early forties. He's quite attractive in a dark, bearded sort of way, doesn't say much, keeps to the point, asks the right questions, listens to the answers and makes notes. He's a solicitor in Brampton. I don't feel I know him as well as I know Henry. Though I've met with him several times now I know next-to-nothing of his personal circumstances except that he's not married. In Henry Nugent's case I was invited to their house, met the family. Molly Nugent is a nice woman. They have, I'd guess, a happy family life.

What I
did
gather without it ever being stated was that neither of the men liked me very much, or to be fairer to them, I wasn't what they were looking for. They'd both been polite, expressed sympathy with my circumstances, but the enthusiasm to have me was muted, even though St Mary's has been struggling without an incumbent for nine months and Henry wanted out. I did wonder if they thought I'd bring too many personal problems with me, though I purposely hadn't dwelt on them.

On that first clandestine visit I'd made to Thurston, soon after the Bishop had sounded me out about a possible living there, I rated it an attractive and lively-looking village, not unlike Hampton where I had been a deacon at St James's, and where I'd been happy. The population of Thurston is around two to three thousand, mostly, I'm told, middle-class except for a small council estate on the outskirts. There's a post office, which also sells milk, a newsagent, more than its fair share of antique shops and estate agents, plus a few other shops, a church primary school, two pubs. According to the timetable posted in the shelter, the bus goes every half-hour to Brampton, the nearest town and railway station, but if the report in the parish magazine which I picked up in the church is true, the bus service is threatened with withdrawal or severe cutting since too few people use it. ‘Most people these days have cars,' I was told.

The church is attractive and, in spite of the fact that it's several centuries old, seems in reasonable repair, though it's a bit dusty and shabby inside. Perhaps the long interregnum was simply because there aren't enough priests to go round, though there's a commonly held view that the diocese deliberately prolongs interregnums to save money on the incumbent's salary. Meanwhile the parish has to make do with whatever help it can get from other parishes. If there are any other reasons for St Mary's, I expect they'll come to light. I did wonder, when I'd finally been offered the post, if Bishop Charles, realizing in the end that something had to be done, had put the pressure on St Mary's to have me. Last Chance Saloon, boys, even if it
is
a woman! And indeed, hadn't the Bishop put gentle pressure on me to take the appointment if it was offered?

That, I like to think, is out of his kindness and concern for me, and not only because of Philip but because I had not got on well with the Reverend Humphrey Payne, whose curate I became at Holy Trinity when I was priested. It would take a saint to get on with Father Humphrey and I'm not all that into saints, though Teresa of Avila is all right. A tough cookie that one! She would have eaten the Reverend Humphrey alive and spit out his bones. In the Bishop's view – I had discovered this in the way that totally confidential matters eventually filter down to the lower ranks – I had done my job at Holy Trinity well but he, knowing Humphrey Payne's view on women in holy orders, would never have appointed me there. My appointment had been made shortly before Bishop Charles (we are all into first names now, even with bishops) took over. ‘It is not,' the Bishop was quoted as saying, ‘that I myself am wildly enthusiastic about women in the priesthood, but given that they are now a fact of life I shall see, as far as I can, that they are treated fairly; not given preferential treatment, but equal chances. It is my job to look after the clergy in my diocese and that I shall do, irrespective of gender.'

You may ask why Humphrey Payne, being so against women in the priesthood, had accepted me into his parish in the first place. The reason was that having decided after a struggle with his conscience not to go over to Rome but to stay in the Church of England he then, as another and important matter of conscience, had to remain obedient to his bishop. Duty was done, but I don't suppose he could ever have actually welcomed me.

Looking down at St Mary's congregation now, it's larger than I'd expected from the parish profile I'd been given. Have some of them come out of curiosity, to take a look at the new Vicar but not to be seen in church again unless they venture here for the Harvest Festival or the Christmas Carol Service? I suppose the advent of a new Vicar, following one who'd been here for twenty-seven years, is an event in the life of any village.

And had some stayed away because they couldn't cope with the thought of me, a woman? I knew that had been the case with some of the laity at Holy Trinity (and they didn't even have to contend with loyalty to the Bishop). Others had coped because I was only the Curate, which didn't quite count. There was always the Vicar on hand to do the proper jobs like giving communion or officiating at funerals or weddings. At a push, he allowed that it was OK for the Curate to do a few baptisms. All the same, I like to think that by the end of my stint at Holy Trinity there were those who had come to terms with having a woman in Holy Orders. Some, I know, actually liked me.

So what about
these
people, here? What do they want of me? What do they expect? I am on display – I feel totally vulnerable. Will they laugh if I crack a joke, or is their church (theirs as much as mine) not the place for levity? I see before me faces I wouldn't mind having dinner with, and others which would serve as ice packs. But I remind myself that I am here to proclaim the word of God, the good news of the gospel, and not only on this first occasion. I will offend some – not intentionally, but I'm not here to puff people up with platitudes and half truths, though I
am
here to encourage.

The hymn is drawing to a close. One thing I can say for this lot, they're quite good at singing. I join in, though it is not my forte. ‘Thus provided, pardoned, guided,' we sing, ‘Nothing can our peace destroy.' I hope they are right.

I stretch out my hands and rest them on the ledge which runs around the pulpit a few inches below the top so that, hopefully, no-one will see they are trembling. I take a deep breath, count up to five. Here goes! I shall probably be marked out of ten for this sermon.

I remember what a wise priest once told me. ‘Preaching is like prospecting for oil. If you haven't struck it in the first two minutes, stop boring.'

‘In the name of the Father . . .' I begin. Never have I meant it more.

The service is over. No-one stood up and denounced me, no-one marched out, though I did notice that not all those who were in the pews came up to the altar to receive communion. Several remained in their seats. You do notice things like that. And a great deal more besides.

And now I'm standing in the porch, flanked by the churchwardens, all three of us making farewells. These people look reasonable sorts; some smile and some don't but no sign of horns or tails. I hope I look confident. I am normally a confident person, sure of myself. If I hadn't been how would I ever have got as far as this? How would I have survived, right from the beginning, right from the freezing winter's morning when I had to wait thirty minutes for a train which was delayed because of ice on the points – or some such reason – and I presented myself late for my first interview, frozen to the marrow and dying for a cup of very hot coffee, which was not forthcoming. The Director of Ordinands didn't acknowledge my apologies. Instead he looked at his watch and said, ‘Well, we'd better get on with it, hadn't we?' The words he didn't say were written on his face: ‘Trust a woman to be late!' It was all the more maddening because I'm normally punctual to the minute.

That was only the first of several interviews, meetings, tests, before I was even accepted for a theological college. Not one of them, even when the interviewer was basically polite, welcomed me. I was clearly not wanted, I was a chore the rules said had to be dealt with. Nor was I any more welcome when at last, after delays and procrastinations – I swear someone sat on my file, or hid it – I was finally admitted to theological college where I was pleased to find three other women on the same course. One of them was married; only I had a child and there were certainly no concessions for that. The feeling was that I should be at home, looking after her.

But I made it, in fact I did well. I coped with the studying, the reading – often far into the night – the various tests, the obstacles. My goal was crystal clear and it was not so much a goal as a calling, loud and clear, there was no way I wouldn't answer it. And at the worst of times there was Philip to go home to, and Becky. The students who were married were allowed to live out.

So why, having come through everything so far and now standing here at the door of my own church, do I feel apprehensive, panicky even? Perhaps it was the sermon? The minute it was over, even before I walked down the pulpit steps, I knew all the things I'd left out and the things I'd put in and maybe shouldn't have. Oh well, that's what hindsight does for you! Too late now. There's no going back on it. And no way will I show that I'm the least bit nervous because, as a matter of fact, I'm looking forward to meeting all these people again, getting to know them. God has given them to me and it's up to him to give me a helping hand, which of course I know he will. I'm not doing this on my own. I shall be OK.

Actually, though we are all saying good-bye, except those who slide out without a word, I know I'm sure to meet some of these people a few minutes from now since there are refreshments to be had in the parish hall and if they're anything like as good as those laid on after the institution then they'll be worth staying for. ‘You'll learn quite soon,' Richard Proctor told me on that occasion, ‘that the people of St Mary's are particularly good at social functions, whether public or private!'

When everyone has left the church, except for the sidesmen who are tidying up, I set off with the churchwardens across the churchyard to the parish hall. A light rain is falling. ‘We'd have liked to have had the hall built adjacent to the church,' Henry Nugent says. ‘Walking across the churchyard in the winter, when the weather's really bad, isn't pleasant. But we couldn't because of the graves. We had to build on the nearest bit of spare land.'

‘I thought something could be done about graves,' I say.

Henry shakes his head. ‘Not without a lot of fuss and palaver. Some of these are very old, hundreds of years in fact. Make the wrong move, get valid objections, and before you could say “in loving memory” you could find yourself up before a consistory court.'

I have already heard about consistory courts. The thought of them can keep church officials, especially incumbents, awake at night, sweating. Stories are always in circulation about how an objection from a single parishioner about a seemingly small matter, let alone anything as sensitive as graves, when taken through the court had resulted in financial ruin for the church in question. Henry Nugent shudders now at the thought.