A Blessing In Disguise (3 page)

A gratifying number of people are gathered in the hall, gratifying if they're waiting to meet me. Maybe it's just the baked meats but I prefer to think not. Most of them are standing, juggling with cups of coffee, plates, glasses of wine, but some are seated at tables around the room. Each table is covered with a checked cloth and boasts a small vase of fresh flowers artistically arranged. ‘Ah!' I say, ‘very pretty! A nice feminine touch!'

‘Oh no,' Henry says. ‘Eric always does the flowers.'

A buffet has been laid out on a long table down the side of the room and a queue is forming there.

‘Let me get you some wine,' Richard Proctor offers. ‘Or would you rather have coffee?'

‘Wine please! Red,' I tell him. And off he goes.

There was wine at the collation a few evenings ago. I'd been pleased then, and am again now, by this evidence of civilization. The last hour has certainly been, not really an ordeal, but testing. A glass of wine will be welcome before I start on the next phase, that of speaking to as many people as I can, with the impossible task of remembering all their names. A few I might remember from the collation but there I was also involved with friends from Holy Trinity who had come to give me a good send-off in my new job.

Standing at Henry Nugent's side, waiting for Richard to return, I look around the room, searching for my family though I am sure someone or other will have taken charge of them. I spot them at a table at the far end of the room, in conversation with two women. I wave and, having seen me, they wave back – all except Becky who, though I know she's aware of me, deliberately turns away.

Richard returns with the wine. ‘I didn't bring you anything to eat,' he says. ‘I thought you'd rather choose for yourself.'

‘Later,' I tell him.

Henry Nugent catches sight of someone halfway across the room. ‘Ah! There's Bill Carstairs. Will you excuse me for a minute?'

‘Why don't we move around?' Richard suggests. ‘I'll introduce you to people, put names to faces.'

I'm bad at remembering names. I wish I knew an infallible way of doing it. Someone once explained to me a method which they swore had always worked for them. You try to fix an image on to the person you're meeting, something which will be a reminder next time you meet. I tried it. Mr Hyland, the man's name was. High Land, I thought. Mountain. And he was tall. So the next time I met him I called him Mr Hill!

We begin to move. I abandon my wine, the better to shake hands.

‘Ah!' says Richard, coming to a sudden halt. ‘Here's a lady you must meet. Mrs Rose Barker. Rose has been secretary to the PCC since before I came to live in Thurston. She was away when you met some of the church council on your previous visit.'

Rose Barker is a small, thin lady, of my own height, or even shorter. She is elderly, plain of feature, sallow skinned and dressed from head almost to foot in a shapeless black garment. Anything less like a rose I have seldom seen, so the method isn't going to work on her. What about Barker? Think of a dog's bark. A small, yappy dog.

‘I'm delighted to meet you,' Rose Barker says in a voice so beautiful, so mellifluous, that she makes the everyday greeting sound like poetry. ‘And what an unusual name you have! Venus! How did you come by it – or does everyone ask you that?'

‘Lots of people do. I tell them they must blame my mother. It was her choice.'

‘I suppose it was,' Rose says. ‘But she must have had a special reason – not that it isn't a lovely name, of course. And in a way it suits you. A pocket Venus, though. Not a great big Venus de Milo with no arms. And you're very pretty. How incongruous it would have been if I'd been named Venus!' She laughs heartily at the thought. Even her hearty laugh is like music. ‘So tell me, what
was
the reason?'

I take a deep breath. I have gone through this before and no doubt will again. Perhaps I should write an account for the parish magazine. ‘Well –' I begin, ‘and she won't mind me telling you this though whether you'll find it believable is another matter – three years after my parents were married there was no sign of baby coming along, for which, her doctor said, no reason could be found. My mother was deeply unhappy about this, on the verge of what used to be called a nervous breakdown, so in an effort to cheer her up my father took her on a holiday. He chose Rome and Florence because she had always loved art galleries, and in Florence they went almost every day to the Uffizi. And there, to her surprise and even more to my father's, she fell madly in love with Botticelli's “Birth of Venus”.'

‘I know the one,' Rose Barker said. ‘Very beautiful!'

‘Yes. Well, after the first time they went there every day. My mother would stand in front of it, just looking and looking. When it came to the last day she could hardly bear to leave it. Standing there, taking her last fill of it, she swore to my father that if she ever were to have a child it would be named Venus. Then to her amazement, a month after she returned home she found herself pregnant. So there was never any doubt what my name would be.'

‘Lucky she didn't have a son!' Rose Barker says.

‘Quite!' I say. ‘She might well have named him Botticelli, which would have been shortened to “Botty”. Anyway, she never had another child, nor did she ever regret naming me Venus though I've gone through life hating it.'

‘Poor you!' Rose Barker says. ‘But what a lovely story. Is your mother here? I must meet her.'

And when you do, I think, you are in for a big surprise. I love my mother dearly, I wouldn't change her for any other mother in the world, but she is, honest to God, the most down-to-earth, matter-of-fact person you could ever meet. Her obsession with the Botticelli Venus was possibly the one romantic episode in her life. I put it down to the fact that she was already, but unknowingly, pregnant when she was in Florence. The dates fit. Pregnant women get weird ideas. I think she went a bit funny. She certainly hasn't had a strange notion since, nor one even the least bit unconventional.

I point her out. ‘She's over there. In the far corner, with the rest of my family.' It was the most obvious place for my father to choose.

‘Then I'll go and have a word with them,' Rose Barker says. ‘Good-bye for now!' Her voice makes that sound like a benediction.

I turn to Richard.

‘Look, I mustn't monopolize you. Why not leave me to it? I'll just wander around and speak to whoever I come across. I'm not the least bit shy. Honestly, I'll be quite happy.'

I don't need him to shepherd me. I'd much rather make my own way, speak to people at random, not have them chosen for me. Also I'm pretty certain Richard is merely doing his duty.

Another thing, Richard would introduce me mainly to the hierarchy and I don't want that. I don't like hierarchy, anywhere or at any time. I shall meet them all in any case, but here's my chance to speak to just anyone, find out who they are, why they're here today, what particular part, if any, they play in the village. Pick up a bit of village gossip. My ministry here, as I see it, is not only to those who come to church. To my mind it includes everyone in Thurston, whether of my creed, some other creed or no creed at all. Indeed some of the last will almost certainly turn out to be the most interesting. But some won't approve of me, and not only because I'm a woman. For a priest it's an occupational hazard. Nor will they hesitate to tell me why, and that will come from people in the church as well as outside it.

Anyone can be as rude as they like to the clergy. Oh yes, it's par for the course! They can tell you, whether you want to know or not, how they disapprove of your beliefs, because they know better. They
know
God doesn't exist. They can criticize the way you dress – walking around the parish in a cassock, fancy vestments on a Sunday. Jesus didn't wear embroidered stoles, did he? Anything is game. And of course the clergy can never be rude back because no-one entitled to wear a dog collar can be rude. It's not in the job description, is it? But I can cope with that. I don't argue, even though I think I might have some of the answers on the tip of my tongue, because I've never believed that the Christian faith was spread by argument.

So I move away from Richard – and is it my imagination that he looks relieved? – and the first person I bump into, literally, is a woman of indeterminate age and appearance. A sort of beige woman.

‘Whoops!'

‘My fault!' she says. She has a nice smile which shows off teeth perfect enough to be American. ‘My husband says I do it all the time. I mean walk around in a dream, not necessarily bump into people.'

‘And you are . . . ? I'm sorry, I don't know names yet.'

‘Trudy Santer. I run the Sunday School.'

‘How wonderful!'

‘Not really. I only do it because there's no-one else. You see it used to be done by the Vicar's wife. I mean the former Vicar's wife. Before that, when we had a curate, it was naturally done by him.'

It would be. It was one of the jobs I did at Holy Trinity, largely because Humphrey Payne didn't know what to do with me, with my sore handicap of being a woman. Running the Sunday School, visiting the elderly chronic sick, organizing the Women's Group and taking the occasional funeral of some obscure, non-attending parishioner whom the Vicar had not known in life and was not interested in in death had been the bedrock of my duties.

‘So I'm hoping you'll take an interest in the Sunday School here,' Mrs Santer says, which I translate as she has high hopes that I'll take it on.

I give her my widest smile, but it can't compete with hers because my teeth are not as expensively maintained.

‘Of
course
I'll be interested,' I assure her, with truth. ‘Work with the young is one of my passions. It's very important. But I'm a great believer in the laity doing all the things for which they're equally well fitted. I expect this is a busy parish so I'll need all the help people like you can give me. And I'll be grateful for it.'

Her smile falters a little. ‘I had thought . . .' she begins.

‘We must have a talk about it later,' I say. ‘When we have more time. I'd really like to know what you're doing. But if you'll excuse me for now . . .'

‘Of course!' she agrees.

I move on, then pause at a table where a man and four women are sitting. ‘May I join you?' I ask.

‘Please do,' one of them says.

‘Can I get you something to drink?' the man asks. ‘Coffee, or wine? Something to eat?'

‘Nothing to eat,' I tell him. ‘A glass of wine would be lovely. I did start out with one but after one sip I seem to have lost it. Now, I'm going to ask all your names but I tell you here and now, I'll probably forget them. So you won't hesitate to remind me next time we meet, will you?'

‘I'm Carla Brown,' one of the women says. She is plump and confident-looking. ‘I don't particularly do anything. I don't even come to church much, but I thought I'd make an effort today. That's my husband who's gone to get the wine. He's Walter.'

I turn to an elderly woman who is sitting very upright at the end of the table, behind a plate piled high with tomato sandwiches and sausage rolls. I tell myself that this lady is most likely an old dear who lives alone and is turning this occasion into her Sunday lunch. ‘And you are . . . ?' I ask politely.

‘I am Miss Frazer. Miss Amelia Frazer,' she replies in the finest cut-glass tones.

‘The
Honourable
Miss Frazer,' a woman beside her says in a suitably deferential voice. ‘With a zed.'

‘And have you lived in Thurston long, Miss Frazer?' I enquire.

‘I was born here,' she replies. ‘The Frazers have lived in Thurston since William the Conqueror gave the land on which the village, the church, and indeed the foundations of the house I inhabit, are built to my ancestor, Cedric de Frazer.'

‘Goodness!' I say – which sounds inadequate. ‘You must know every bit of local history!'

She concedes with a slight nod. ‘I make it my business, as well as my pleasure.'

‘And you must have known several incumbents here?'

‘Five,' she says. ‘Of whom the last Vicar was quite the finest. I am older than he, and in his twenty-seven years as Vicar of St Mary's I was able to guide him in the traditions of Thurston and of St Mary's. It was something he always appreciated. Yes, his retirement was a great loss to all of us. A great loss! Indeed, the Reverend John Marks was a true saint!'

There is a silent pause in which I am more or less waiting for someone to say ‘Amen', then the woman beside her says ‘Excuse me' and rushes away in the direction of the loo. Miss Frazer herself breaks the short silence.

‘And let me tell you here and now, it has to be said and I shall not shirk it, I do not approve of you. It is not personal since I don't know you, except that I know you made the choice, but I do not in any way approve of women priests. Women priests are an abomination unto the Lord! If I had still been on the Parochial Church Council, from which, and now to my regret, I resigned a year ago, I would hope and believe this appointment would not have gone through!'

I don't reply immediately and it's probably that which makes Carla Brown decide I am at a loss for words. I'm not lost for words. I'm not even wounded or thrown because I'd known it would come from one quarter or another. I decide to let Miss Frazer have her full say – I'm sure there's more to come – before I respond, and even then it won't be with an argument. That would be a waste of time.

‘I think that's uncalled for,' Carla Brown says bravely. ‘In any case, I don't see what difference it makes – man or woman!'

Miss Frazer gives her a freezing look.

‘I wouldn't expect you to,' she says. ‘You are ignorant of the traditions of the Church. What would
you
know of the apostolic succession? Jesus was not a woman and he did not appoint women. His apostles were men, chosen by him not only to found the Church but to carry it down through the ages. As long as the world shall last.'