A Blessing In Disguise (21 page)

Then, after the prayers and the consecration, I stand in front of the altar, ready to give communion, and I watch the congregation moving towards me in single file to kneel at the altar rail. Always a wonderful moment. Miss Frazer is amongst them. She drops to her knees halfway along the row – stiffly, she is obviously arthritic – and as I approach her, and see her cupped hands held high to receive the bread, I feel a sudden surge of happiness at the sight. God is good, I think. Praise the Lord!

‘The body of Christ!' I say, making a slight move to place the bread in her hands.

At the very last second, before I can do so, and with a sweeping, circular motion, as if it's a movement in a dance routine, she waves her hands through the air and places them behind her back.

My spirits, which seconds before had soared, dive. I almost cry out but instead I take a deep breath and move along the line. Then I go back to the beginning of the rail and offer the chalice to each person in turn. Miss Frazer, whose hands are now in front of her again, as if ready to receive, closes her mouth firmly, shakes her head from side to side, and gives a repeat performance with her hands. I draw the chalice back, holding it out of harm's way, I continue smoothly along the line as if what she had done had hardly touched me.

The people on either side of her at the altar rail are well aware of what she did. How could they be otherwise since her sweeping movements threatened to knock their heads off? The people standing in line to take their places at the altar rail also witness this drama, as of course they were intended to. But except for the words which I speak quietly as I move along the line there is no sound. No gasps, not even a sharp intake of breath. It was a performance entirely in mime, and no less dramatic for that.

I cannot tell you what this does to me. My heart is thumping. My whole body is shaking and I hold on firmly to the chalice trying to steady myself, trying desperately hard not to be filled with anger because this is neither the time nor the place for anger. If there is to be anger it will have to come later. So I continue with what I have to do, what it is my privilege to do, until everyone has been served and returned to their places, and somehow I get on with the rest of the service until the end when, facing the congregation, I give the blessing, reminding myself as I say the words that Miss Frazer must be included in this. It's God's blessing, not mine. It is also God whom she has slapped in the face; my God and her God, though she probably thinks I am the culprit. She has personalized God in the priest.

I give out the notices.

‘There will be the usual meeting of the Bible class on Thursday morning at eleven a.m. in the parish hall.

‘The Women's Group meets Wednesday evening when Mr Fallow will speak about his travels in the Alps. I am told he has some wonderful slides!

‘Will those of you who so kindly deliver parish magazines every month please pick up your copies from the parish office on your way out.

‘And on Tuesday we are experimenting with a change of service time. The eight p.m. Eucharist will, from now on, be moved to ten o'clock on Tuesday mornings. This has been agreed by the PCC and we hope, especially now that the dark evenings are here and the cold weather lies ahead, that those who attend this service will find the new time much more convenient.'

There! I think, I've got that out, and not a murmur! Probably no-one is the least bit interested, for there is no sign of the Tuesday-nighters, except Miss Frazer, who will already know all about it because she's had the letter.

I have no hope of escaping her as she leaves. I don't know whether I should say anything, or nothing at all, about the morning's episode. What
can
I say? The truth is, I don't know. So I decide I will leave it to her. She will have no difficulty in finding the words, though what further words are needed on her part? Her actions have said it all.

Or one would have thought so, but this woman does not miss a trick.

She stands in the middle of the people who are leaving, some of them shaking me by the hand, some giving me a smile, some saying nothing at all, not meeting my eyes.

‘Do not think,' she says in a voice which would cut steel at twenty paces, ‘do not think that you will get away with this, Mrs Stanton, you so-called Vicar! You will not! I shall take whatever steps are necessary! Indeed, I have already taken steps!' With which she sweeps out of the door and limps away down the path.

I stand in my place at the door until everyone has left. I desperately need to be on my own and I go and sit in the Lady Chapel. I know I can't stay there long because I must put in an appearance at coffee, so after a few minutes I stand up again. I have stopped trembling, I square my shoulders, hold up my head and walk across to the parish hall. I don't know what, if anything, will happen, but I'm ready for it.

In the hall, people are sitting or standing around in groups, but then they usually are, that's nothing new. Nearest to the door there are half-a-dozen or so people at a table and a few more standing nearby. I do detect a slight falling off of their conversation as I approach, but then Walter Brown jumps to his feet, saying, ‘Sit here, Vicar. I'll get you a coffee.'

I take his seat.

‘Disgraceful!' Carla Brown says. ‘Totally disgraceful! No point in pretending we're not talking about it, Venus, because we are! Some of us saw it all, and I reckon those who didn't have been informed. But we're on your side. That Frazer woman should be banned!'

There is a general murmur of agreement. Walter brings my coffee. ‘Thank you!' I say to him, and then I say the same words to the rest of the group. ‘I can't tell you how grateful I am for your support.'

‘You have it,' Walter Brown says, ‘but all the same I reckon you should watch your back. Most people are going to be on your side, but not all. There'll be a few . . .'

‘I'm prepared for that,' I say. ‘I was long before I came to St Mary's. It happens. It's not going to get me down, I promise you – but most of all I don't want it to harm the congregation. I shall carry on as normal and I hope we all will. That would be the best thing we could all do.'

‘I agree,' a woman says. ‘But what if she does it again?'

‘We'll face it when it happens!' I say.

‘I suppose there's one in every church. A Miss Frazer, I mean,' Walter says.

He's probably right.

‘I must go and have a word with the churchwardens,' I say. ‘Please excuse me!'

I make a move to leave, and then I stop again.

‘There
is
one thing you can all do,' I tell them.

‘Done as soon as asked!' Carla says. I get the feeling she's bursting to go into battle – not what I want.

‘So what is it?' someone asks.

‘Pray!' I tell them.

On Monday morning when I go into Becky's room to waken her she is curled round in the bed with the duvet pulled up, leaving only the top of her head showing.

‘Time to get up, darling!' I cry.

She emerges slowly, only her forehead and eyes revealed.

‘I feel poorly,' she says in a weak, strained voice.

‘Oh dear,' I sympathize. ‘In what way poorly, sweetheart? You were all right when you went to bed last night, weren't you? You didn't say anything.'

‘I was all right then,' she says. ‘Now I have a headache and I feel sick!'

‘When did it start?' I ask. ‘Was it during the night? You should have wakened me.' I put my hand on her forehead. ‘You don't feel as if you have a temperature, but I'll take it just in case.'

I fetch the thermometer from the bathroom cupboard.

‘Well dear, your temperature's normal,' I tell her. ‘Thirty-seven.'

‘It can't be,' Becky protests. ‘There must be something wrong with the thermometer. I tell you, I feel awful!
And
I've got stomach ache.' She pulls the duvet half over her head again.

‘When did that start?' I ask.

‘A few minutes ago,' Becky says. ‘It's awful!'

‘Oh, I
am
sorry, darling!' I say. ‘Then you'd better stay right where you are. I'll bring you a drink of hot milk, or some juice. Which would you like? Or a cup of tea?'

‘A cup of tea,' she says weakly. ‘And some toast with Marmite.'

I nod. ‘And I'll fill a hot water bottle. It'll help your stomach ache. I won't be long!'

Fifteen minutes later I take her tea and toast and the hot water bottle. She sits up in bed and I stay with her while she eats her breakfast.

‘Do you feel better for that?' I ask, taking away her tray, shaking up her pillow.

‘A little bit,' she admits. ‘Just a little bit!'

‘I'll ring the school secretary in a while,' I say. ‘Tell her you won't be in today.'

‘And perhaps not tomorrow,' she says in a weary voice.

‘Oh, I expect you'll be all right by tomorrow,' I say cheerfully. ‘We'll see! And I'm sorry, but I have to go out later. I have a funeral at half-past ten. Will you be all right?'

‘I expect so,' she says. Then she turns away from me and snuggles down again under the duvet.

At half-past eight I ring the school.

‘I don't think it's anything much,' I tell the secretary. ‘But I'm keeping her in bed, just in case. And if it is a bug you don't want it spreading around the school, do you?'

‘We certainly don't!' she agrees. ‘Though there's no sign of anything at the moment, nor was there last week. I hope she'll soon be better.'

I look in on Becky to tell her I've rung the school but she appears to be asleep; at any rate I say her name and she doesn't answer, so it's a good time to say my Office. Like all priests, monks and nuns, and some lay people, I do this morning and evening every day. Prayers, a Bible reading, the psalm appointed for the day. It's as regular as brushing my teeth, though I hope not as mechanical, and I can do it almost anywhere, and indeed have. I can do it on a crowded train, on the bus. (I don't do it when I'm driving because I'd be a danger to the public. An even worse one than usual, Philip used to say.) I can do it in church, in the house or the garden; walking, sitting, kneeling, lying down. It might sound like a chore but it never feels like one, partly because I know that I'm doing it in the company of others, everywhere, all around the world, even if not necessarily at that exact moment. So I go into my study and close the door behind me.

After that I get through a few chores in the house: change my bed, put on a wash, vacuum around the ground floor and then it's time to leave for Ronnie Leigh's funeral. I look in on Becky again but she's still asleep, so I write a note and leave it on her bedside table.

I spoke with the churchwardens before I left the hall yesterday. They hadn't seen the Frazer incident but they'd been told about it the moment they reached the hall. They were appalled, of course, but not all that surprised.

‘She's been making her views known up and down the place since the minute she knew you were coming,' Henry said.

‘The thing is,' Richard said, ‘she's an influential woman.'

‘Not quite as much as she thinks she is,' Henry put in. ‘Financially, maybe. Not necessarily otherwise. She's just bossy!'

Richard shook his head.

‘There are two or three people who'd follow her lead. We should watch out for them.'

‘Well you do that,' I said. ‘For the moment I'm going to wait and see what happens. When and if I think it's necessary, then I
will
do something. And don't worry that you think she's upset me. I can cope. I'm more upset at what she's done to God – but it won't be a first time for him, will it? He'll know how to deal with it.'

The funeral this morning goes according to plan, in fact it goes well, and one can say that of a funeral even though it's a sad occasion. There's a satisfaction in doing everything properly, giving the one who's died a good, and preferably loving, send-off. There are about twenty people present. Sometimes there might be fewer than half-a-dozen, which always saddens me, especially when it comes to a handful of people struggling to sing the hymns. ‘Abide with Me' on the football terraces it is not!

Afterwards, standing around the grave in the bright autumn sunshine, Mrs Leigh introduces me to some of the mourners: two men from the Thurston bowls club, one from the snooker club and a man who had been a colleague of Ronnie's before they both retired from working for Brampton Council. And Marilyn's husband, Brendan, of course.

‘Little Garth wanted to come,' Mrs Leigh says. ‘He's very upset about his grandpa, but Marilyn didn't want him to.'

‘He's only seven,' Marilyn protests. ‘I think he's too young to come to a funeral, even if it is his grandpa's! But Brendan doesn't agree with me.'

And I agree with Brendan, but this isn't the time, and perhaps it's not my place, to say so, but if she'd spoken about it earlier I'd have said that I think it's right for a child to be at a grandparent's funeral. Children accept more than we give them credit for. They also like to see things concluded, not just to feel that someone they love has vanished into thin air. But no way will I say that at this point.

‘We've got refreshments back at the house,' Mrs Leigh says. ‘We'd be very pleased if you'd join us, Vicar.'

‘Thank you. That's very kind,' I reply. ‘I won't, if you don't mind. My little girl's not well. I've left her in bed so I'd like to get back.'

‘Oh,' Mrs Leigh says, ‘I didn't know you had a daughter!'

That doesn't surprise me. A lot of people think the clergy, of either sex, live on another planet.

‘Oh yes,' I say. ‘Becky. She's ten. So I'll be getting along, if you'll excuse me.'

As a matter of fact, though I'm often invited, I tend not to go back to the house after a funeral. I think this is a time for family and friends to be together; to reminisce or – if there's been too much sherry flowing – to bring up old grievances. Where there's a will there's a quarrel. At any rate it's not the place for a stranger, which in this case is what I am; quite unknown to any of them in Ronnie Leigh's lifetime and probably unlikely to see any of them again.