A Blessing In Disguise (20 page)

‘You can please yourself about going to bed,' I say. ‘But don't even consider being rude to anyone visiting this house! Ever.'

But because I'm sorry for her, and I'm not keen on her being on her own all evening, undoubtedly moping, I move the small portable television from my bedroom into hers. She was actually and visibly pleased about this, the first light in the darkness for some time, so I think I shall leave it there permanently, though I shall have to put strict limits on how late she watches. I don't know why I haven't given it to her before now. It was bought for Philip when the time came that he had to spend a lot of hours in bed. I seldom watched it there myself, though in the months after Philip died I would be glued to it until the early hours of every morning simply because it gave me the illusion of bringing other people into the room. I hate sleeping alone, but now I prefer to read a book, with Classic FM on the radio, until I fall asleep.

So on Friday evening Becky is up there watching ‘Top of the Pops' before anyone arrives, which I know would be followed by ‘EastEnders' and then switched over to Channel Four for ‘Brookside'. But she will be temporarily happy, my little girl, and even temporary happiness is not to be sneezed at.

They arrive, sixteen members of the PCC, almost in one great rush. I serve them coffee and biscuits and then, after twenty minutes or so of chit-chat, we set to work. The agenda is short – the Sunday School and how to attract more teachers to it, the churchyard, the photocopier which is on the blink again and actually needs replacing by a more up-to-date one, and the inevitable gloomy report on the state of our finances from the Treasurer, which hits on the head all thoughts of a new photocopier. And then it is my turn to bring up the subject of the Tuesday evening Eucharist.

There's a bit of a murmur when I mention cutting it out, but only from one or two people.

‘But it's been going a long time,' says a woman I know to be named Mrs Nathan. (I'm gradually getting to know people's names.) ‘We're used to it.'

‘Well, Mrs Nathan, we wouldn't be so much cutting it out as changing the time. I do propose a Tuesday morning service in its place,' I point out. ‘That might suit you even better. Actually, I hadn't realized you came to the Tuesday evening.'

‘Oh, I don't!' she says brightly. ‘Tuesday is my bridge night, always has been. It's just that, as I say, the Tuesday evening's been going a long time now. It's sort of established. St Mary's is an old, established church, and people don't like change, do they?' She speaks kindly, as if to someone who doesn't know much about human nature.

‘Indeed they do
not
, Mrs Nathan! I agree with you there!'

She looks gratified, but I haven't quite finished.

‘As you rightly say, St Mary's is a very old church. I've been reading its history. Most interesting! Did you know – I expect you all did – that when it was first built there were no pews, not for a long time? People had to stand – except for the old and infirm, there were a few benches around the walls for them. And it was lit only by candles for – oh, I don't know how long! Years and years! But I'm sure you know all that, and isn't it interesting to worship in a church with so much history . . .'

I know what I'm going to say next but Henry Nugent, who from now on I shall call the Blessed Henry, sees the way the wind is blowing and comes to my rescue.

‘Yes, isn't it?' he says. ‘And isn't it as well people made changes or we'd still be standing through the services, and groping about in candlelight! I believe there was a lot of opposition to putting electric lighting in the church – not to mention central heating!'

The Blessed Henry is well liked and much respected – I've discovered that – so people take notice of what he says and there is a lot of nodding of heads in agreement. As for me, I'd like to give him a big hug!

After that the dissension about Tuesday evenings fades away and it is agreed we should try the new time, so while acceptance is in the air I weigh in quickly with my ideas about baptisms, that they should take place in the middle of the ten o'clock Sunday Eucharist. There are a few uneasy looks, a bit of shifting in seats.

‘But will people
like
it?' someone asks. I didn't know her name.

Richard Proctor speaks up. (Bless his little cotton socks, too!)

‘They might well
prefer
it,' he says. ‘Given time to get used to it. It sounds interesting, having the congregation take part. After all, we're not just giving the baby a name, are we? We're welcoming it into the church family. And if people don't like it then they're sure to say so. I've found people always ready to complain if there's something they don't like.'

‘Anyway, it wouldn't be set in stone,' I say. ‘If we try it and it's not quite right we can adapt it until it is.'

‘We mustn't be afraid to try changes,' Henry says. Good old Henry!

‘But what about babies crying in the middle of the service?' someone else says. ‘Won't that be disturbing? And they will, won't they?'

‘Oh, sure to!' I agree. ‘So would I if someone poured water over my head three times in quick succession!'

‘When a baby cries,' pipes up Miss Tordoff, Spinster of this Parish and our representative on the Deanery Synod, ‘it's like a little prayer going straight up to God in heaven!'

True, I think – but there speaks a lady who has never been kept awake half the night by a squalling infant.

So you could say this part of my Friday evening is OK – I keep back my ideas on a music group and some new hymns for another time.

On Saturday morning after breakfast I go straight to my desk and write letters to the four people who are regulars at the Tuesday evening Eucharist. I want to announce it in church on Sunday and I think it only fair that they should know before then. The Blessed Henry knows who they are: the man is Herbert Butler, a retired school teacher; the two women in addition to Miss Frazer are a Mrs Ellen Kennedy and a Mrs Jane Morton, both widowed, both retired, though I don't know from what unless it was being wives. I don't think I would ever have wanted to retire from being a wife, and perhaps they hadn't either.

I phone Henry.

‘If you know their addresses, then I'll deliver the letters myself,' I say to Henry.

‘I do know them,' he replies. ‘In any case they're on the electoral roll. But no need for you to deliver them. I'll do that.'

You can see why he's the Blessed Henry! Considering he didn't want a woman priest here, he's being very nice to me.

‘That would be great!' I tell him. ‘I do really want to go into Brampton for one or two things, including a couple of books I need to read before I sort out what I want to do for Advent.' In any case I don't fancy walking up Miss Frazer's path – though more likely she has a drive, not a path – in case she sets the dogs on me.

So by half-past ten he's been and gone and I'm ready to leave.

‘I do wish you'd come with me!' I say to Becky. ‘I'm happy to wait until you've finished your breakfast and got dressed.' She's only been up a few minutes. ‘We could have a good look at the shops, any shops you like, and perhaps have some lunch. It would make a change for both of us.'

‘I've told you, I'm not going!' she says. ‘I hate Brampton!'

‘No you don't!' I contradict. ‘You enjoyed it when you went with Gran and Grandpa!'

She makes no reply to that, simply goes on eating her cornflakes. It doesn't need to be said. She doesn't want to go with me.

‘So shall you go out?' I wanted to know.

‘I don't know what I'll do!'

‘Well, don't go beyond the village. And make sure you lock the door and take your key with you.' I wonder if I should cancel my plans but I really need the books. I also wanted to go to Marks & Spencer's for some new underwear. When I looked in my knicker drawer yesterday morning I thought how disgustingly tatty everything looked. The white ones looked a sort of tired grey, the black ones were no longer deepest black, as if old age and long service had faded their strength, and all the lacy bits on everything looked as if they were about to fray. Philip wouldn't have approved of that. Nor would I have a year or two ago, but who cares about my underwear now?

‘I shan't be long,' I say. ‘Is there anything you'd like me to bring you?'

‘No! And will you stop treating me like a baby?' Becky demands.

I would, I think, if you'd stop behaving like one. But she
is
my baby, and she's troubled, and I don't know how to help her because she's shutting me out. I just wish she had a friend she'd talk to.

‘I'm taking my mobile with me,' I say. ‘And I haven't switched the Vicarage phone through to it so you can get me if you want me for anything. Anything at all.'

She doesn't answer.

Nothing further goes wrong on Saturday. I find the books I wanted. I also buy extravagantly in Marks & Spencer's, not only lots of lovely underwear, but knee-high socks which are ideal under my cassock or trousers, and much easier than tights. And also several delicious-looking things from the food department including – for Becky's sake I tell myself, though I like them every bit as much as she does – a couple of sherry cream trifles. I can't say they do a lot to lighten the atmosphere when we come to eat them: they don't, but we manage to keep a sort of truce. You can't argue while eating cream trifle.

And now it's Sunday. Sunday is the day I look forward to, and it never lets me down, but I don't feel like that today. I waken already dreading it. I'd heard nothing of Miss Frazer's progress from anyone. Henry phoned me to say he'd delivered the letters but not set eyes on any of the recipients. No news, I try to tell myself, is good news – but if I were to be honest I know my good news would be that she was still unwell and wouldn't be able to make it to church. But I can't pray to the Lord for that, can I? I can't even allow myself, deep down in my cowardly heart, to hope for it. ‘Prayer . . .' I once read in some magazine or other which printed little moral sayings whenever there was a bit of space at the bottom of a page . . . ‘Prayer is the heart's sincere desire, uttered or unexpressed.' So where does that leave me?

The eight o'clock goes well; I have the feeling it always will. Nothing exciting, nothing demanding, but no trouble, no trouble at all. Afterwards I hurry back to the Vicarage and do what I'd planned to do. A cooked breakfast: bacon, scrambled eggs and hash browns.

‘I hope this suits you,' I say to Becky. ‘We'll have this more often.'

She doesn't answer, but she eats steadily through it, leaving a plate as clean as a whistle.

‘And now we'll have to get a move on or we'll be late for church,' I tell her.

‘I don't want to go to church!' Becky says.

I stand quite still. I am clearing the table and my hands are full with dishes. If this has to be another battle, then it is one I'm not going to lose!

‘That won't do,' I say. ‘We are both going to church!'

‘I won't go!' Becky says.

‘Becky,' I said, ‘over the last week you have been impossible! I've bent over backwards to please you. I think now it's your turn to please me. Get ready for church.'

I'm entirely sure, at this moment, why I'm being so insistent. Did it really matter if she doesn't go to church? But somehow I think it does, and not just so that I can win the battle, much more because I know she's unhappy. I know there have been many times when I've rebelled against going to church, for a variety of reasons and sometimes for no reason at all. And not just when I was a child. Oh dear, no! Even since I've been ordained I've occasionally felt like that. Somehow, though, I've dragged myself there – and the miracle is that by the time I've gone through it, reached the last hymn, I've been healed. And other people have said the same thing to me about themselves.

I'm not totally certain what my motive for Becky is at this minute, whether to make her do it because she'd feel better in the end, or whether I'm just using an adult's power over a child.

‘Please, Becky,' I plead.

‘You can't make me!' she says.

‘If you mean I can't physically drag you there, kicking and screaming, you're right. Though of course I could say if you can't please me in this, then I can move my television back into my room!' I tell her.

And then I hear myself and realize how horrid I sound. This is
really
using power! I also see Becky's expression change and I know I could win this one – the television is a great draw – but I won't do so.

‘However, I won't do that!' I say. ‘The television is yours. Moreover I will change my mind. If you don't want to go to church then I won't try to make you.'

So I don't. And I walk there on my own, heavyhearted.

A little later I realize my unexpressed prayer is not to be answered, or maybe God is answering with a firm, ‘No, Venus! How can you be so mean to a sick old lady?' Whatever. Miss Frazer has recovered sufficiently to be in church. I am not in the porch when she arrives so the first I see of her is when I am standing at the front, facing everyone, ready to take the service. She looks much as ever to me, though perhaps a little pale, tight-lipped, but what's new?

The service progresses; no hitch, no hold-ups. The hymns, the readings, the Gospel, the sermon. Standing there in the pulpit I reckon there are about the same number of people in church as on the previous Sunday, I don't seem to have lost anyone, or gained for that matter, but gains, if there are to be any, come slowly. Anyway, I chide myself, I shouldn't be thinking in terms of numbers, though it's my bet that most parish priests do so, even if not first and foremost. And even if we didn't, the media would rush to tell us, especially if the numbers were going down. That, and the misdemeanours of clergy, churchwardens, Sunday School teachers, are always good for a headline on an inside page.