A Blessing In Disguise (39 page)

‘Do let me have a look, Mrs Mayfield!' I say. ‘Is something exciting going to happen?'

Mrs Mayfield is reluctant to give me the leaflet, so the other woman, Mrs Barrett, hands me hers.

‘You're going to see it in the end!' she says as she hands it to me. It's a small sheet of paper, set out as you see it here.

My head spins and I feel sick. But way above that I am angry, oh, so very angry! And without stopping to say a word to anyone I run down the path. I run at such a speed that those still walking up, the stragglers, have to jump out of my way.

WOMEN PRIESTS

 

So-called priests are
UNLAWFUL IN THE SIGHT OF GOD.

 

The Holy Bible, the word of God, tells us that
GOD

MADE WOMAN TO BE MAN'S HELPER.

NOWHERE IN THE BIBLE IS A WOMAN ANOINTED AS A PRIEST!!

 

WHEN WE FLY IN THE FACE OF GOD WE

EXPECT TO RECEIVE HIS PUNISHMENT!!

 

THUS SAITH THE LORD!

 

“Because you have defiled my sanctuary I will cut you down!

I will make you an object of Mockery!”

 

“The wrath of the Lord is upon you! I will punish you for your ways!”

 

“The heavens will reveal their iniquity and the earth will rise up against them.”

 

WOMEN MASQUERADING AS PRIESTS MUST GO!

THEY HAVE NO PLACE IN GOD'S CHURCH!!

 

God says, “I will scatter you to every wind!”

When I go through the lych gate and on to the pavement the youth is still there, still clutching a number of leaflets. I catch him totally unawares and grab at them, but all I succeed in doing is knocking them to the ground and he, startled – I am after all in my vestments and probably look like the wrath of God come to life – turns around and runs off. The leaflets, probably about a dozen, lie around on the ground and I start to pick them up. By this time someone has informed the Blessed Henry and here he is, helping me. If his face is anything to go by he also is in a state of shock.

‘Oh, Venus . . . !' he begins.

‘Don't say another word! Not one word!' I order him. ‘I am going straight into the church and I'm going to do what I'm here to do, which is celebrate the Holy Eucharist.'

‘You can't ignore this,' Henry says, waving a leaflet at me. ‘Half of them have read it by this time and the other half have been told.'

‘I shall say a very few words before I begin the service,' I say, ‘and perhaps something in the sermon, but otherwise I shall carry on. The idea behind this is to disrupt and upset everyone. I'm not going to allow that to happen. I will not play into her hands!' There is nothing in the leaflet to say from whom it has originated, but I don't need a name or a signature. Nor does Henry. It is self-evident.

‘It will have to be dealt with,' he says.

‘I know. But not now. I will not allow it to take precedence. I intend to keep as calm as possible and I hope you will, too.'

I am already walking back up the path, at such speed that Henry can hardly keep up with me.

‘Of course!' he says.

When I go into the church there is a buzz of conversation. I take a deep breath and walk at my normal steady speed up the aisle, and as I do so the buzz dies down so that by the time I turn round and face everyone there is absolute silence.

For a second or two I look around. I see my parents and Becky, all three looking distressed. I hadn't actually noticed them coming into church. Perhaps they were amongst the unlucky ones almost mown down as I rushed down the path. And as I look at the rest of the congregation I can't help thinking, ‘Who is with me and who is against me?', but I dismiss that negative thought almost at once. I take a deep breath and find my voice.

‘My friends,' I say, ‘I'm sorry for what has happened. I'm sorry if it distressed you. I don't propose to go into it at this moment, we are here for another purpose. Later, at a time more suitable, and if we decide we wish to do so, we will discuss the whole matter between us.' I have little hope that it won't get around the village and there is nothing I can do about that.

And then I give the greeting of the Eucharist.

I raise my hands, palms uppermost, a gesture which takes in everyone present, and I speak in a firm, confident voice.

‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with you all!'

The reply comes back, it seems to me, in full voice, loud and strong.

‘And also with you!'

I've always felt that this is a greeting and a response which cannot be bettered. It's perfection. What more needs to be said? But it's at this point that emotion almost overwhelms me, I feel the tears pricking at my eyes, but they're mixed with tears of gratitude, and I don't allow them to fall.

I get through the service, of course I do. I'm in fighting mood, but this doesn't mean that I'm not sick at heart. At one point, when I see my congregation lined up in the aisle, coming towards me to receive the sacrament, I feel dizzy and I wonder if I'm going to pass out, but I don't.

Afterwards, I stand at the door as people leave, Henry standing beside me on one side and Richard Proctor on the other, both symbols of solidarity and support for which I'm grateful. Most people say nothing to me, probably they can't find the words, but several smile at me and some touch my hand, briefly. I reckon that most people have an innate sense of what's fair and what isn't and judge an attack of this nature to be unfair, perhaps especially because it's anonymous, though I reckon most people have no doubt about its source.

I go into coffee, make conversation, answer a few questions like, ‘What are you going to do?' and, ‘Where do we go from here?' by saying that I don't know and I will have to think about it. Carla Brown has no hesitation in saying in a loud voice, ‘I could kill that woman!'

I have hardly finished my coffee when my family come across to me and my mother says, ‘I think we'd better leave, Venus. I want to see to the dinner because, don't forget, we'll have to eat early. You're going out this afternoon.' I had almost forgotten that I was going to the concert with Nigel. I'm not sure that I want to go now. Then I tell myself that music hath charms to soothe the savage breast – which mine is – so it might be the very best thing I could do.

Nigel calls for me at two o'clock precisely. We have finished lunch and my mother has already cleared away. Surprisingly, and to my mother's pleasure, in spite of the tumultuous morning I ate and enjoyed my meal. Nigel knows nothing of this morning's events unless – and this is always possible – it's already around Thurston.

‘Do come in and meet my parents,' I say.

My mother only has to say, ‘Pleased to meet you, Doctor Baines,' for him to reply, ‘Ah, Mrs Foster, you're from Yorkshire! I once lived there myself!'

I look at him in amazement. It hasn't affected his accent at all – though maybe I wouldn't recognize the finer nuances if it had. I've lived all my life in Sussex. Meanwhile my mother is smiling broadly at him.

‘Well I never!' she says. ‘Which part? It's a big county, isn't it?'

‘Harrogate,' Nigel says.

‘I was brought up in York,' my mother says. ‘That's where I met Ernest. Not too far from Harrogate, is it?'

‘No, it's not,' Nigel agrees.

I can see, and I think he can, that this conversation could go on a long time, my mother is deeply interested. She is ready to tell how and when she met my father, how they came to leave York, how many years it is since
she
was last in York. Once embarked upon it's a long story, and we have tickets for a concert in Brampton.

‘Well, Mrs Foster,' Nigel says kindly, ‘you and I must get together some time. We probably have quite a lot in common.'

‘That would be lovely, Doctor Baines,' my mother says.

They sound like two expatriates in a foreign land.

‘I'm all ready,' I tell him, standing there with my coat on.

He nods at me, then turns to Becky who until now has had no chance to speak even if she wanted to.

‘Are you OK, Becky?' he asks.

‘Yes!' she says. ‘We're getting a dog! Her name's Missie and she's a spaniel . . .'

This could be another showstopper if Nigel allows it, but once again he's skilled at not doing so.

‘Yes, I know,' he says. ‘I used to have a spaniel. I must drop in when I have more time and tell you about her.'

‘We'll have to be off now,' I say, ‘or we'll miss the start of the concert. We'd be very unpopular, going in late!'

The concert is in the Corn Exchange, no longer used for its original purpose but adapted over the years for exhibitions, meetings and such, including a very pleasant concert hall. We are lucky enough to find a parking space in a nearby street, but we have to hurry to the Corn Exchange, arriving in the nick of time to take our seats before the concert starts. We have good seats, in the second row of the balcony, so that we shall have a good view of the instrumentalists who are tuning up – a sound I love. Then the conductor and soloist appear.

The Rachmaninov comes first – his Second Piano Concerto. ‘The pianist's a great favourite here. Local boy made good!' Nigel whispers.

He is much younger than I expected, possibly in his twenties, small, shy-looking, and when he sits at the piano he seems smaller still; he doesn't look as though he'll have the strength to tackle Rachmaninov but when he starts, the chords quiet at first and then louder and louder, crashing, the strength is there all right; he is a different person, firm and sure, in total control. He and Rachmaninov seem made for each other. And when it ends, with all those runs and chords, there is complete silence, as if everyone has stopped breathing; and then, spontaneously, the applause breaks out, rapturous, tumultuous, one great eruption of sound.

In the interval after the first half of the concert when we leave our seats to stretch our legs in the corridor outside the hall, I turn to Nigel. ‘So what are you going to tell me about Rachmaninov?' I ask.

‘Oh, I expect you know anything I could tell you,' he says. ‘It's not new.'

‘On the contrary,' I say, ‘I know next to nothing. It's a concerto I've always loved, and my mother says I'd love it even more if I'd seen
Brief Encounter
. “Magic!” she always says. “I don't know when I've enjoyed a film more! I cried buckets!”'

‘I've heard people call it hackneyed,' Nigel says, ‘but that's a word pretentious people use when something is enjoyed by the masses. I think it's sad that they can no longer allow themselves to enjoy something once it becomes popular.'

As we go back to our seats for the second half of the concert, the musicians are taking their places again for the Sibelius – his Second Symphony. When the conductor bows to the audience there's a ripple of applause.

I'm more familiar with Sibelius's ‘Finlandia', which is played with great regularity on Classic FM, but listening to this symphony I do detect a similarity between the two works; they share a sombreness, and I wonder if it has anything to do with Sibelius being Finnish. I think of Finland as being dark and cold, eternal winter, with pine-covered hills rising from the shores of deep, ink-black lakes. As it draws to a close, it feels like the entire audience has been on a Finnish journey together. The applause is thunderous.

We leave, the two of us, hardly speaking – as if we don't have the strength for it – but when we step into the street and a blast of cold air meets us Nigel finds his voice.

‘Shall we find somewhere to have tea?' he suggests. ‘You don't have to rush back, do you?'

I don't, do I? And it would bring us back to earth.

The Brampton Arms has a tea room which is what I would describe as reluctantly open. Only one table is occupied and all a tired-looking waitress can offer us is toast and a slice of fruit cake, it being, she informs us, now out of season. So that's what we order. I didn't realize there was a close season for tea.

‘Thank you for a wonderful afternoon,' I say to Nigel while we wait for the tea. ‘It was marvellous. I enjoyed every minute!'

‘So did I,' he says. ‘Thank you for coming!'

I begin to tell him my thoughts on the Sibelius, and he nods. ‘I know what you mean, when I first heard it it made me think of the English Lake District, lakes and mountains, sometimes stormy skies and lashings of rain. I used to walk there, or cycle, when I lived in the north.'

There's so much about Nigel I don't know, very little I do know, but would like to, though he's a man who doesn't talk much about himself. I wouldn't have envisaged him striding over mountains.

‘As a matter of fact,' he says, ‘Sibelius wrote this symphony when he was in Italy! It's supposed to be lighter than his other works.'

‘You seem to be knowledgeable about music,' I say. And that's another fact I didn't know about him.

‘Not really,' he says modestly. ‘I don't play an instrument, except a few chords on a guitar. I wish I did.'

The kitchen has geared itself up to making a pot of tea and two slices of toast and the weary waitress serves it, plus a small dish of strawberry jam and the fruit cake. As far as two people can linger over this feast, we do.

‘So what brought you to Thurston?' I ask when the subject of Sibelius is exhausted. ‘I know you said you trained in London, and never went back to Ireland, but why Thurston?'

‘Because of Sonia – and her husband,' Nigel says. ‘We all three worked in the same hospital, in London, and then Sonia and Kit moved down to Thurston. Their marriage was rocky, they thought the move would improve things, but it didn't. I suppose it's difficult with one doctor in a marriage, and with two it's next door to impossible. At least it was with them. In the end he went to Australia. I understand he's doing well there.'