A Blessing In Disguise (29 page)

‘Who sups with the devil must use a long spoon!' Miss Frazer shouts after us.

Someone offers me a chair, someone else fetches me coffee, people come forward to sit by me. I am suddenly the flavour of the month, but not only, I discover, because I've been shouted at by Miss Frazer, but also because I've been burgled. The general feeling seems to be that no-one should have to endure both these trials so closely after each other.

‘She'd no business to do what she did, say what she did . . .'

‘Especially when you'd been burgled!'

‘She's a stupid old bat!' Carla Brown says. ‘She thinks she rules the roost!' For someone who says she doesn't often come to church Carla Brown is doing very well at the moment.

No-one has a good word to say for Miss Frazer; on the other hand no-one says they actually agree or disagree with her basic views about women priests. Their disapproval is of her manners. At the moment they are treating me as a woman who has been soundly berated and needs support. The question of the priesthood doesn't come into it. However, I tell myself, they are being kind and friendly towards me and that counts for a lot. And, who knows, perhaps for most of them the sex of the priest doesn't matter? That would be a happy thought.

Miss Frazer, naturally, and wisely, has not followed us into coffee, and now I notice that Mrs Bateman isn't there nor, come to think of it, was she in church.

‘Does anyone know where Mrs Bateman is?' I ask. ‘Is she ill?'

No-one knows, though the general opinion is that Miss Frazer has forbidden her to come.

‘And who was the lady who rushed out of church after Miss Frazer?' I enquire. ‘I don't see her here.'

‘Oh, that was Daisy Heston,' Carla says. ‘She's a nurse. She always follows anyone who rushes out of church in case they're unwell. She's a sort of resident first-aider. She doesn't often come into coffee.'

So not, as I had thought, someone in sympathy with Miss Frazer's views, or not necessarily.

Should I pay a visit to Mrs Bateman, I ask myself as I walk home. But perhaps it would be better to let everything wait until I can assume that Miss Frazer has had the Bishop's letter. Will it be something she'll go and chew over with Mrs Bateman? I doubt it, if it's critical. Maybe she'll read her selected phrases, the polite ones which acknowledge what a wonderful support her family have always been to St Mary's. And then, quite deliberately, I put Miss Frazer out of my mind, and when I get into the house I dial Clipton.

‘How's everything with you?' my mother asks.

‘Fine!' I say. ‘Absolutely fine!'

‘Everything all right at church?'

‘Great!' I tell her.

I don't say a word about the burglary. It can wait until I see her. I don't really know how much to tell Becky because I don't want to frighten her, also because she's had enough on her plate, but there's no way I can guard her from being ever left alone in the house, especially as it was possibly early evening when he came. I shall have to think about it and for the moment I'm thankful I'll have time to do that.

‘So what are you going to do with yourself this week?' my mother asks.

‘I'm considering having a small supper party,' I tell her.

‘A good idea!' she says. ‘Anyway, I'll put Becky on now.'

Becky tells me she's enjoying herself. ‘I've been playing cards with Granddad,' she informs me. ‘I won fourpence! We're going to the cinema tomorrow. We're having roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for lunch, and sticky toffee pudding. We had a cooked breakfast this morning.' Clearly her appetite is normal. ‘We didn't go to church,' she adds with some satisfaction. We chat for another minute or two and then I say, ‘See you on Saturday!' and we ring off.

And now I can't put it off any longer. I shall have to go up to my bedroom.

Two drawers are open. One contained nothing of value and he hasn't taken anything from it; the second drawer – he was lucky there – was my jewellery drawer. I keep it all together and, as far as I can, in small boxes, but now most of the boxes are scattered on the carpet, and horribly empty. He has quite clearly been disturbed because there are still things in the drawer and some of the boxes on the floor haven't been emptied. I think that, reckoning the house was unoccupied, he was taking his time to make a selection, until he heard my car on the drive. So he has left my pearls and at least I'm grateful for that, but he has taken a cameo brooch, set in gold, which was left to me by my grandmother, also a gold chain, some silver earrings, and a number of rings. He's not a knowledgeable thief because he's made off with two or three rings which were pretty, but of little value, zircons rather than diamonds, and left behind a diamond and amethyst eternity ring which Philip gave me when Becky was born. I'd hate to have lost that.

I now have the melancholy task of making a list for the police, and another for the insurance, of all that's missing – ‘with as full descriptions as you can' the police said. So I do that, and then tidy the bedroom, putting the empty jewel boxes away in another drawer, though why I'm doing that I'm not sure because I have little hope that I shall ever see any of the contents again. First thing tomorrow I must inform the insurance company.

It's lunchtime, and I'm surprisingly hungry, so I cook myself an omelette into which I throw just about anything I can find in the fridge: bacon, potatoes, a few leftover vegetables, chopped chives and so on, and serve it with a salad and a glass of wine. After lunch I could go for a long walk, I'm free to do so, but there's something in me which doesn't want to go out, and then have to come back and let myself into an empty house. I shall get over this but at the moment, especially after doing the bedroom, I feel raw, defenceless. So I find a notepad and start planning the supper party I might, or might not, have one evening this week. Thursday would be a good day. And I will definitely invite the Nugents. They were so good to me last night, and again this morning.

There's no reply from the Nugents, so I ring the others in turn, Sonia first. ‘I apologize for the short notice. It seemed a good opportunity. I'm on my own this week, Becky's with my parents.'

‘Don't apologize,' Sonia says. ‘I quite like short notice things – I mean when they're pleasant. They're unlooked-for pleasures. And I'd love to come. And how
is
Becky? I meant to ring you but somehow I didn't get around to it.' Of course she doesn't know the half of what's happened, does she? So I put her in the picture.

‘Oh, poor Becky! Poor you! I
am
sorry,' she says. ‘But it sounds as though it's going to be all right now. Evelyn's very wise, isn't she?'

I agree with her, wholeheartedly. ‘I want to phone Nigel now,' I tell her. ‘Do you think he'd mind if you gave me his home number? Or I could wait until tomorrow and ring him at the surgery.'

‘Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't mind,' Sonia says quickly. ‘In fact it's probably better than ringing him at the surgery. It's 2746. He might just be out; he goes to the symphony concerts in Brampton and I think there's one on today.'

I call him and he
is
out. His voice on the answerphone is warm and friendly, just as if he were standing right there in front of me. I once heard my own answerphone message and I sounded awful, very toffee-nosed. I'm always meaning to change it. I leave a message, asking him to call me back, then I ring Mark Dover, who had given me his number.

‘Venus!' he says. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Are you ringing to tell me you're going to let me paint your portrait?'

‘No,' I say, ‘I'm calling to ask you if you'd like to come to supper on Thursday. I've invited Sonia and she can, and I'm about to ring the others. I'm sorry it's such short notice.'

‘Don't worry about that!' he says. ‘And I'd love to come, but on one condition.'

‘Really? And what condition is that?' I ask.

‘If I come to your supper you've got to promise you'll let me paint your portrait.'

‘You're very persistent,' I say.

‘I know! I don't give up easily. You can choose your own day and time, but you've got to say “yes”.'

‘I can't just arrange something like that on the spur of the moment,' I demur.

‘Of course you can!' he contradicts me. ‘But if you like you can just say “yes” now and make a definite date when I see you on Thursday.'

‘You're very persuasive . . .' I begin.

‘. . . I know,' he says. ‘Persistent and persuasive. Come on, Venus!'

I give in. ‘I can only come for an hour or so at a time,' I warn him – but he interrupts me again.

‘Oh, we'll sort out all that on Thursday!'

I ring off. He's another one who has a nice voice on the telephone; not as deep as Nigel's, lighter, as is his conversation; almost teasing, whereas Nigel's voice is not only deep, it is warm, reassuring. I could do with a dose of Nigel's voice right now. Why does he have to be at a concert in Brampton? I wonder what time he'll be back?

I shan't tell the Blessed Henry Mark Dover is to paint my portrait. I'm not sure why. It's just that – well – he might not approve, he might find it frivolous, especially as I haven't been in the parish ten minutes. Not that it has anything to do with Henry.

I ring Evelyn – I did wonder if she might be away, it being half-term, but she answers the phone. ‘We'd love to come,' she says. ‘Have you heard from Becky?'

I tell her I've spoken with her and everything seems OK. Then I dial Henry's number and Molly answers the phone.

‘Oh, what a shame!' she says. ‘We'd have loved to have come,' she sounds as though she really means it. ‘The thing is, we can't. We're out on Thursday, in fact it's a busy week all round.'

‘I'm sorry about that,' I say, ‘but some other time!'

These telephone calls have really cheered me up. Such nice people, sounding really pleased to be invited. And they've given me something to plan for. Now I only have to wait for Nigel. I ask myself how I will feel if he says he can't make it. The answer is ‘disappointed'. Very disappointed. I should have waited to ask him first. In the meantime I get out the cookery books and pore over them, deciding what I'll do. I have far too many cookery books for one who doesn't entertain much.

Nigel phones me around half-past five.

‘Venus!' he says. ‘I've been meaning to call you for the last day or two. Is everything OK? I mean with Becky?'

So I tell him the rest of the story. He is horrified about the burglary. ‘Why didn't you ring me?' he says. ‘I'd have come at once.'

‘But that wasn't what I was phoning you about,' I say. ‘I was calling to ask you if you could come to supper on Thursday. Sonia's coming – and the Sharps and Mark Dover.'

‘Thank you, I'd like to,' he says. ‘I shall be on call that evening – we take it in turn. But then for that matter you'll be on call, won't you?'

‘I will,' I agreed. ‘But with any luck perhaps neither of us will be needed.'

‘Amen to that!' he says. ‘I'm sorry I wasn't in when you rang earlier. I've been to the concert in Brampton. They have them once a month. Their own orchestra, or sometimes a visiting one, and sometimes a soloist. Quite good, really! Perhaps you might like to go some time – that's to say if it's in your line. I don't know whether you like music.'

‘Oh I do!' I assure him. ‘My husband and I used to go to concerts – until he found he couldn't sit through them, that is. He played the piano himself.' He played the piano until near the end, but now it stands there silently since Becky has neither the desire nor, frankly, the talent, and I can't play a note.

There's a very short silence, as there sometimes is when I speak of Philip, and then Nigel says, ‘Yes. Well, I look forward to Thursday!'

I realize a minute later that Nigel is the only one to whom I've mentioned the burglary. Never mind, it can wait! In any case I wouldn't have wanted to have given the details four times over. My idea is to put it behind me and get on with life.

I have decided that in the next few days, between now and Thursday's supper party for which I must plan and shop and cook, and apart from the fact that I have a Deanery meeting in Brampton on Tuesday afternoon, a burial of ashes on Wednesday morning, a wedding couple the same evening, and a sick visit this afternoon, I am reasonably clear – until something else crops up, as of course it will. When I've been here longer and I'm better known my days will undoubtedly be considerably fuller. That's the way it goes.

I'm pleased to be doing the sick visit this afternoon, not pleased that the lady – her name is Bertha Jowett and she's eighty-nine and housebound – is sick, but pleased that a member of the ten o'clock congregation, Jean Close, asked me to visit. She apologized for asking me.

‘I know you're busy,' she said, ‘but it would make such a difference to Miss Jowett. She's never married, she doesn't have any family and about the only people she sees are the chiropodist, the milkman if she's up in time, the doctor occasionally, and me. I told her about you – well, she'd read it in the
Echo
when you first came – but I told her I'd met you and she was very interested. It's very good of you to say you'll visit.'

‘It's not especially good,' I told her. ‘I'll be pleased to do it. Actually, I have to thank you for bringing Miss Jowett to my notice. How would I have known otherwise?' Half the time the clergy are criticized for not visiting those who need them when it's because they simply don't know about the need.

‘Would you like me to be there when you come?' Jean Close asked.

‘Yes, I would, I think that's a good idea. If we go together it might be easier for Miss Jowett,' I said. ‘When would be convenient?'