A Blessing In Disguise (47 page)

I wonder if, this morning, I could take her with me? I won't do it without asking, Mrs Leigh might not like dogs, or she might be one of those people who are truly allergic to them. I have her number from the funeral details, so I give her a ring.

‘Oh, hello!' I say. ‘I'm likely to be around your way this morning and I wondered if I might pop in and see you? Nothing special, just a chat!'

‘That would be very nice,' she says.

‘The only thing is, I've got a new dog. She's only been with us since Saturday and I don't like to leave her yet. Would it be all right if I brought her with me? She's a small spaniel, very well behaved. She's not a puppy and her previous owner must have trained her very well. But do say “No” if you'd rather not, and I'll fix some other time.'

‘You're very welcome to bring her,' Mrs Leigh says. ‘I like dogs!'

I arrange to be with her around ten to ten-thirty. I shan't stay long because I have to think about lunch, but I have this feeling that I want to be certain she's all right. There was something in her look . . . I know from experience that there's this period, a little while after the funeral, when you can feel very down. I think that might be why Ethel came to church yesterday. It takes time to settle to being on one's own, and sometimes one needs a bit of help. I know Ethel has her daughter, but Marilyn has a part-time job and Garth is at school.

She's very welcoming in her quiet way, makes a fuss of Missie, which Missie clearly enjoys. The coffee is ready and she serves a plate of custard creams with it.

‘Can I give the dog a bit of biscuit?' she asks.

‘I'm sure Missie would love that,' I tell her, throwing my rules out of the window.

We talk of this and that; her daughter, her grandson, the weather, and then she says, ‘I do miss Ronnie! It's not that we ever talked a lot, he was a quiet man, but he was always there. And I had to do things for him, make meals, keep the house nice, and so on. Now I don't feel as though I've anything to do.' There's a pause, then she says: ‘In fact, I wondered if I might find a little job. I don't have all that many skills, but I can cook and I can clean, and I suppose I could serve in a shop. Not a full-time job, of course; just an hour or two a day, or a few half days a week. I wondered whether I'd put a card in the post office window?'

‘That sounds a good idea,' I say. ‘Why not try it? And in the meantime if I hear of anything I'll mention your name.'

‘Thank you,' she says. ‘That would be great.'

At eleven o'clock I say, ‘I'm sorry, I'll have to leave now. I have someone coming to lunch and I still have to shop for it. Perhaps I'll see you on Sunday? Or whenever.'

‘Thank you for coming,' she says. ‘You've cheered me up. And I shall think seriously about getting a little job. I'm sure it's what Ronnie would have wanted, though he never wanted me to go out to work as long as he could earn the living. He was very old-fashioned that way.'

I've decided to make a lasagne for lunch and it's while I'm standing at Joss Barker's counter, watching him weigh out some nice lean mince – I have had to tie up Missie outside for the moment – that the thought comes to me. Two thoughts, actually both on the same subject.

First of all, why don't I work out whether or not I can possibly afford to have Ethel Leigh give me a hand in the Vicarage for two or three hours a week – which from my point of view would be heavenly bliss – and, secondly, couldn't she be the one to give Bertha Jowett a hand, clearing things out, packing things up, cleaning, whatever was wanted? Bertha is going to have to have help, there's no way she can do it herself. I suppose she could afford it and in any case it's only a temporary job but it would get Ethel outside her four walls. I don't have time to see Bertha this morning but perhaps I could go later today. I'm quite pleased with both ideas, I think as I call in at Winterton's for some salad things, where once again I tie Missie up outside. It will be much more convenient when I can leave her at home while I shop. On the other hand, she is clearly enjoying it all. She's getting a lot of attention from people who've not seen me with a dog before.

‘Would Sunday week be all right for the christening?' Mr Winterton asks. ‘My daughter's going to phone you.'

‘Absolutely fine!' I tell him. ‘I'll keep the date free, but ask her not to leave it too long.' I'm hoping that the parents will agree to be the first to have their baby's baptism at the Eucharist. I think they might, Mr Winterton and his family are well-known and liked in the village; they're outgoing people, I think they'll be taken by the idea.

I am busy making the lunch, I have laid the table in the dining room, the lasagne is in the oven, when the phone rings. It's Esmé Bickler.

‘I'm sorry I wasn't in,' she says. ‘We had a parish retreat this weekend. I didn't get back until late last night. How are you? Did you ring for something special?'

I had already decided that, since I spoke with Nigel at the moment when I most needed someone, and I'd decided how to deal with it, what to do and what not to do, that I wouldn't take it any further. If Esmé rang me back, which I expected she would eventually, I'd ask if everything was all right with her, and if it was I'd keep quiet. Sometimes it makes things worse if they're spread too far. Of course if I asked her, ‘How are things with you?' and she said, ‘They're awful!' then I might change my mind, we might pool our difficulties. As it happens, she doesn't.

‘I just rang to say “hello”,' I tell her. ‘Is everything going OK?'

‘Fine!' she says. ‘How about you?'

‘Also fine!' I tell her. It is possible we are neither of us telling the exact truth, but in fact I feel better for not going into the whole story yet again. I feel that what I have to say I can say to Henry and to Nigel. I already feel stronger for deciding how to deal with it.

We chat for a while, this and that, and then the doorbell rings and I say, ‘Lovely to talk to you but I'll have to go. I have someone coming to lunch.' We ring off, promising to visit each other as soon as we possibly can. And I go to let Nigel in.

I'm so
pleased
to see him standing there. There is a comforting familiarity in the sight of him, and yet there's something new. Not visibly new, he's the same tall, thin man with the same unruly red hair, and when he says, ‘Hello, Venus! Am I too early?' it's with the same attractive Irish accent, but it's almost as if I'm experiencing all this for the first time. And in a way I suppose I am because when I first met him, at the surgery and then at Sonia's dinner party, I don't remember him making a strong impression on me, not even when he took me to the hospital. He was just a pleasant, kind man. And when he took me to the concert it was much the same. But now it's different, he
is
closer and I think it can only be because I turned to him when I was down, dispirited, vulnerable. I still don't know what gave me the nerve to do that, actually to phone him, but I'm glad I did. And thankfully I don't feel the least embarrassment about that today. I feel at ease with him.

‘Not at all too early,' I tell him. ‘I was on the phone to Esmé Bickler, that's why I was a bit slow getting to the door.'

‘Ah,' he says, ‘the invisible Esmé Bickler! Shall I ever set eyes on her?'

‘I expect you will,' I say. ‘We plan to meet, but no time fixed. Like me, she's single-handed. It isn't easy to leave one's parish.'

He hands me a bottle of wine and then follows me through to the kitchen. I've laid the table in the dining room but I still have one or two things to do to the meal.

‘Can I help?' he asks.

‘Yes, you can open the wine,' I say, pointing him in the direction of the corkscrew. ‘We can have a glass while I'm making the salad. I don't usually have the luxury of wine at lunchtime.'

‘Nor me,' he admits. ‘I usually do my visits straight after surgery but I'll do them later in the afternoon today.'

‘Is it a busy time of the year for you?' I enquire.

‘Most times are busy,' he says. ‘Perhaps after Christmas and most of January are the busiest, especially with the old people and particularly if the weather's bad.'

He opens the wine and pours it, then he sits at the table with his while I sip mine in between chopping the chives and washing the watercress. ‘Mmm! Nice wine,' I say. ‘Now all I have to do is make the dressing . . .'

‘Let me do that!' he interrupts.

‘OK,' and I direct him to the olive oil, the white wine vinegar and the mustard and he sets to work; then while he tosses the salad I take the lasagne out of the oven. It looks good – golden and crispy on top, which is how I like it. We move into the dining room.

Nothing, so far, has been said about last night's phone conversation, though this is the reason why he's here, and I'm not sure that I want to plunge into it. I'm enjoying these untroubled minutes and, almost as if we had a pact between us to do so – which we haven't – we keep off the subject right through the meal.

‘Whereabouts in Ireland do you come from?' I ask him.

‘County Clare,' he tells me. ‘From Quilty, a fishing village on the coast. My mother still lives there. I visit her when I can. Gatwick to Dublin is only an hour's flight. I hire a car at the airport and drive west. Have you never been to Ireland?'

I admit I haven't.

‘Oh, but you should!' he says. ‘You'd like it. It's wonderful – especially the west, but I suppose I'm prejudiced!'

‘One of these days I will!' I say.

And so it goes, chit-chat, chit-chat throughout the meal, no awkward pauses. It's a warm and comfortable feeling. In fact it's not until we're drinking our coffee that he mentions last night, and all he says is, ‘Well, are you feeling better? And have you written the letter?'

‘I've drafted it,' I say. ‘It's very polite.' And I get up and fetch it to show to him.

He reads it. ‘Masterly!' he says. ‘So what now?'

‘I shall carry on as usual,' I say. ‘If there are any repercussions about this, anything more from Miss Frazer – which I daresay there's bound to be – but if there's anyone following Miss Carson's and Mrs Blamires's lead, then I'll deal with that, as seems best, when it happens. I'm not going to go looking for trouble. I'll deal with whatever comes,
as
it comes. There's loads of things I want to do in the parish. I had a meeting and I've given people some of my ideas. There seems to be a fair amount of goodwill, so I shall hang on to that and just go ahead wherever I can!'

‘Fine!' Nigel says.

‘Do you have factions at St Patrick's?' I ask. ‘I mean, for instance, do you have those who think the Pope is way above God himself, as opposed to those who don't approve of him?'

‘Oh, I expect so!' Nigel says. ‘Though I reckon any differences which surface are mostly about smaller things. What's gone wrong with the heating, does the church hall need repainting? Everyday stuff. I don't think we get around to discussing God or the Pope. What we're constantly doing is scratching around for money, as I suppose you are. And we don't even have a rich Miss Frazer to come to the rescue!'

‘Nor do we, any longer!' I remind him. ‘Thanks to me!'

‘Now don't you go down that road, Venus!' he says firmly.

‘I won't,' I promise. ‘But isn't it silly that here's St Mary's and there's St Patrick's, both in the same village, both with the same needs, both professing the same faith, both with good, decent people – and there's this deep uncrossable chasm between us? It really is too silly for words!'

‘It's not just silly,' he says, suddenly sharp. ‘It's a sin. It's a sin against the gospel, it's a sin against God. It's a sin against each other. It drives us apart! Every Sunday morning you go off to your church, I go off to mine, both of us to worship the same God and in almost identical words. We all eat the bread, we drink the wine – in two separate buildings. What sense does that make? The devil must be laughing his head off!'

I've never heard him sound so fierce – but why would I have, I hardly know him? – then suddenly I wonder if it was something like this which caused the rift in the relationship I know he once had. Were he and she irreconcilable because of their different beliefs?

‘I agree with you,' I say. And then I change the subject.

‘We're planning to take the Sunday School children to the pantomime in Brampton,' I tell him. Really, I don't know why I'm telling him this! It's just something to say. ‘If we can raise the money, that is. It's
Cinderella.
' Then I hear myself saying, ‘Why don't you come with us? Be my guest? That would be very ecumenical, don't you think?' I'm smiling now, and so is he.

‘It surely would,' he says. ‘I might well do that! I'll have to look at dates and times.'

‘Let me know,' I say. ‘We have to book the tickets quite soon.'

He looks at his watch. ‘I must push off,' he says. ‘I don't want to, but I've a few visits to make and then I have an evening surgery. Thank you, Venus, it was great!'

‘Thank you,' I reply. Then I add, ‘Thank you especially for last night.'

I see him to the door. He puts a friendly hand on my arm for a second, and then leaves.

I reckon now I just about have time to phone my parents to see how the sale's going. I had hoped to do that and then go round to see Bertha Jowett, put her in the picture. I expect she's anxious for news, but I've promised to take Missie to meet Becky from school, haven't I? So Bertha Jowett will have to wait.

Mum says everything's going fine. She and Dad have told the solicitor they're keen to be in the cottage for Christmas, so will he get a move on. ‘Of course we said it more politely than that,' she tells me, ‘you have to when you're talking to a solicitor, don't you? But Dad was surprisingly firm! Anyway, he said he thought we could just about manage it.'