A Blessing In Disguise (9 page)

‘Do you think she could go back with us tomorrow . . . ?'

‘I've already said . . .'

My mother holds up her hand, and when my mother holds up her hand, perhaps because she seldom does, you stop and listen. My Dad knows that, I know it, Philip knew it. I think my mother has succeeded so far with Becky because she's listened without ever holding up her hand and stopping her. That's how grandparents are. Indulgent, open to persuasion, but I am only a daughter so I wait for my mother to have her say.

‘If she could go back with us tomorrow and stay just until the weekend – she doesn't have to start school until Monday – I think it would help her a lot, give her a bit of a breather. And you too.'

‘You think I'm being hard on her, don't you?' I'm aware I'm sounding aggrieved but it's partly because I really don't know what to do. ‘It's an acute stage for me as well as for Becky, you know.'

My mother shakes her head.

‘I'm sorry, love, but however bad it is for you, it's worse for Becky. You have an incentive for coming here. You made the choice. Even if you didn't think it was going to be perfect you knew you would make something of it. Becky's too young to think that. She had no choice, she was made to come, and she's left everything behind – her friends, her school and – don't forget – her father. She can't think of him as being here in this place.'

‘How could I forget?' And hadn't I heard more or less the same thing from Sonia Leyton yesterday?

‘Of course you can't. But Becky's a child. Everything's in the present. Her world is here and now, she can't believe that things will get better. Oh dear, I don't know whether I'm saying any of this properly. I'm not clever like you. I can't find the words!' My mother's face is lined with anxiety. Suddenly I feel terribly guilty about her.

‘Don't worry . . .' I begin – but she interrupts me.

‘Venus love, just sit down for a minute and think about it. Please!'

I must have heard my mother say that a hundred times in my life. Venus love, sit down for a minute and think about it. Quite often it works.

‘I'll make a cup of tea,' she says, and disappears into the kitchen. So I do as I'm told and sit and think.

When she returns with the tea I say, ‘All right! You win!'

‘It isn't a battle,' she says.

‘Well at times it feels like it! Anyway, she can go with you tomorrow and stay until the weekend. I'd like her to come back on Saturday evening. And how's she going to get back? Am I to come and fetch her, or what? I could do that, I suppose.'

‘No, love. It's better if your Dad and I bring her back, that's if you can put up with us for another weekend. If you could it might actually help Becky to see that not everything in her life is upside down, that some things haven't changed and won't change.'

There's a short silence between us, and then I say, ‘You're right, Mum.'

Actually, I think, I could go further than that. Much as I would miss her, I suppose Becky could spend parts of her school holidays with her grandparents; half-term, which is coming up soon. Christmas, summer, and so on. Why haven't I seen this before? Answer: because I wanted her to myself; I wanted her to fit in with my ways. I wanted my ideas to be her ideas.

‘Then why don't you go up and tell her?' my mother suggests. ‘She might still be awake.'

She isn't awake. She's fast asleep. There are tear stains on her cheeks and her expression, even in sleep, is troubled. I sit by the bed and stroke her hair and her face, feeling an absolute cow. I don't mean to wake her, but I'm pleased when she stirs, and opens her eyes and sees me.

‘It's all right,' I tell her. ‘You can go with Grandma and Grandpa in the morning, I'll see you at the weekend. And don't worry, it's all going to work out. You'll see!'

Still more than half asleep, but clearly taking in something of what I've said, she gives me a small smile. Then she closes her eyes and is back in the Land of Nod.

I think I might actually have got something right!

I stay a little while in case she wakens again, thinking about the evening. Thankfully Emmeline and the baby, and then Becky, helped to keep Miss Frazer out of my mind for a little while, but when I go to bed what then? Becky doesn't waken again. I go downstairs. Half-an-hour later the phone rings. It's Sonia Leyton.

‘Look,' she says, ‘I know it's frightfully short notice and you mightn't be able to get anyone to stay with Becky, but I did wonder if you could make it for supper on Friday, here? But never mind if you can't, there'll be other times.'

‘Oh, but I can!' I tell her. ‘Becky's going to her grandparents.'

‘Fine!' Sonia says. ‘Around seven-thirty, then? Just a few of us!'

What shall I wear? It's already Friday, the dinner's this evening and I'm in a bit of a tizz because I still haven't decided. Some people seem to be surprised that, being what I am, I'm interested in fashion. I do believe they think I wear clothes simply to keep out the cold. Not true! But what
do
people wear when they go out to dinner in Thurston? Velvet trousers, smart tops? Skirts – long or short? Skimpy little dresses with spaghetti straps – well I don't have any of those, do I? A little black number? Common sense tells me that the dress code here will be much the same as it was in Clipton which, if it was referred to at all, was described as ‘smart casual', whatever that means.

‘Does that mean I have to wear a suit?' Philip would ask. He wasn't into suits. On the other hand, he didn't like to be different.

Smart casual is more easily defined for men than for women, I reckon. They can let go and wear a fancy shirt. Sometimes in Clipton the men's clothes would be more flashy than the women's. I guess for the women smart casual rules out jeans and tee shirts at one end and strapless ball gowns at the other, but take your pick of the whole range in between.

My choice is limited by what's in my wardrobe, which at the moment is not a lot and most of it's dated. In the last year or two I've got out of the habit of going out to meals. As Philip's illness progressed the only company he wanted was his family, and after he died I think people were wary about inviting me. Women friends would ask me to tea (I don't do tea) but seldom to dinner parties. Perhaps there was a feeling – it's not uncommon – that a recently widowed, moderately attractive woman would have an eye on their husbands. Certainly not true in my case. How could anyone compare to Philip? I daresay they also thought I might be depressing company, that if someone said the wrong thing I might dissolve into tears at the table. I wouldn't have, and there were times when I'd have liked to have been asked out. Why do people think that mourning is best done on one's own?

So, I'm looking forward to this evening. New job, new friends, and a start, albeit with some trepidation, on a new part of my life here in Thurston.

I could go into Brampton right now and buy something new to wear. I could treat myself. I have a burial of ashes in the memorial garden at one o'clock, and I'm having my hair done at Sandra's in the village at two-thirty, but there's nothing to stop me nipping into Brampton this morning.

No sooner thought of than done, and I am driving along the Brampton road in my little Fiat, which is the first new car I've ever had and the pride of my life. Philip and I had been buying a house, with a mortgage plus a legacy from his favourite aunt, so when I accepted the living here, with its Vicarage, I sold the house, paid off the mortgage and invested most of what was left for Becky's future education. One day she will want to go to university. But not all of it. I bought Becky a new bicycle and treated myself to a car and a Toshiba laptop.

I park by the town hall, which isn't far from the shopping mall. There is no shortage of clothes shops in Brampton: Gap, Next, Monsoon (a bit pricey for me?), Top Shop. I wander around two or three, without seeing anything which takes my fancy. In the third a pleasant assistant approaches me and says, ‘Can I be of any help, Madam?' This is so unusual that I decide that either I appear lost or I look like a shoplifter. I explain what I'm looking for. ‘I see,' she says. ‘And what kind of thing do you usually wear?'

‘A cassock,' say I without thinking.

She is totally uncomprehending, but she no longer thinks I'm a shoplifter, just a mad-woman.

It is true that I spend a lot of my time wearing my cassock. It's comfortable, it defines my role as the parish priest – normally one wears it only when walking around one's own parish. In the summer a cotton one can be cool because one need wear little underneath it; in the winter it can conceal several layers of clothing, as indeed it conceals my own bulges which I intend to do something about once I'm settled in. It is unisex, it is always stylish. The only reason I would one day like to rise to the height of a Canon in the Church is that their black cassocks are trimmed with deep pink piping, with small matching buttons all the way down the front and on the cuffs. Possibly this is the chief reward for being a Canon? So I am not knocking the cassock but that doesn't mean I don't like to dress up in pretty clothes and wear a jewel or two. My long drop earrings and the pearl necklace which Philip gave me as a wedding present would not look well with my cassock.

‘I'll leave you to it, then, shall I?' the shop assistant says. ‘I'm here if you want me.'

I eventually pick out four outfits which I take to the fitting-room, which I discover to my horror is communal! There are half-a-dozen women in there in various states of undress, two with nothing on their top half and not more than a strategic few square inches below. They are aged around seventeen to twenty, all size eight or at the most ten, with firm bottoms and high breasts which require no help from underwired bras. Not an inch of spare flesh to be seen anywhere. They have no compunction about displaying their lovely taut bodies. Why should they have? Beside them, size fourteen, I want to hide mine, but there being no escape from it, I strip down to my pants and bra and try not to look at the ample flesh which hides the fact that somewhere I actually do have ribs. And is my bosom beginning to sag? Is it? I grab at the first garment to hand in order to cover myself up. Not that anyone cares. They take not the slightest notice of me, bless their kind hearts. They are all looking at the vision of themselves in the cruelly (for me) revealing mirrors which are so positioned that one can see oneself front, back and sides, all at the same time.

The first thing I try on is a shift dress, knee-length, low-necked, in a sort of toffee colour, which has the benefit of a matching jacket which will be useful if bare arms and décolleté necklines are not
de rigueur
for the kind of place I shall find myself. I don't like it. Next a green, fine wool, no-nonsense dress: elbow-length sleeves, A-line skirt, belted at the waist. A suitable dress for a Vicar, but I'm not going as a Vicar, I'm going as myself, Venus Stanton. So I don't even bother to try that on. The third is a long, rather full-skirted, blue polyester affair, with ruffles at the neck and hem. Ankle-length skirts, with any fullness, which this has, make me look as though I have no legs. I look like a table lamp. Why on earth did I take it off the rail? The last is a two-piece in a pale lilac linen, ankle-length but bias cut; a scoop neckline with pretty beading around the neck. It costs far more than I can afford, and being linen it will crease every time I move and will need constant ironing. Nevertheless, this is the one I shall buy. It fits like a dream and the colour suits me. I climb back into my jeans and jacket and go out to the cash desk, taking a deep breath as I hand over my credit card.

I am back in church, five minutes before I am due to meet with the ashes-burying family. All goes well there and they seem to derive comfort, as families often do, by laying their father's remains to rest in a place they can visit when they so wish.

‘Your hair's come up well!' Sandra the hairdresser tells me an hour or so later and, looking at myself in the mirror I agree. It's a lightish brown, but Sandra has put a blonde rinse on it which has brought up a few highlights. I wear it chin length, sometimes a bit longer, to remain feminine looking when I'm wearing what you might call my uniform. At my ordination, all the ordinands of both sexes, being similarly attired from head to foot, were most easily distinguished by their hair styles. The men's hair then was longer, curlier, more bouffant. Now the men are all-over close cropped, a Number Three, a Number Two, or even a Number One, and don't look half as fetching.

I pop back to the church, deciding to have a word with the voluntary verger. The voluntary vergers – more often referred to as the voluntary virgins – are a band of true saints. Between them they are in the church for several hours a day, most days of the year, simply so that visitors to Thurston, of whom there are a good number because it's a pretty village, can come in and look around. And hopefully leave something in the donations box. They – the vergers – bring their knitting, or the crossword or a book with them. I suppose it can be a boring two hours if not many people come. To my surprise and pleasure Carla Brown is doing this shift.

‘Hello,' I say. ‘Nice to see you! I didn't notice you when I was in earlier.'

‘I was a bit late,' she admits. ‘I had to take Jack to be clipped.'

For a moment I think she means her husband to the village barber, but surely his name is Walter? And then I notice a white poodle lying beneath the pew. Very close-cropped, he is; his pink flesh showing through. Definitely a Number One.

‘He always comes here with me,' Carla explains. ‘He seems to like it, I can't think why!'

‘Have you had many visitors?' I ask.

‘Not really. It's getting a bit late in the year. I had three Japanese. I think they might have been speaking English but I couldn't understand a word. Your hair looks nice, Venus. Are you going somewhere special?'