Regret to Inform You... (18 page)

‘It's just as we thought when we went down to Dorset and, indeed, when they last came here. Maybe mother is angry at the way father often treats you and how he regards your parents. Certainly something has happened between them, or am I imagining it?'

This time Eleanor embraced her husband before saying: ‘No, I'm afraid it seems so, Arthur.'

Peter was still thinking about his newly acquired stamp as he cycled past the pond and along the slight incline of Wood Lane: a solitary letter for Mr S. Jones. Peter knocked on the door which was immediately opened by young George. ‘Thank you, Mr Peter,' the youngest in the family said as he took the letter.

Peter knew most of the village children by now and, with a cheery wave to George, remounted his bicycle. Continuing along the rutted lane, his round ended with a most welcome cup of tea at Spinney Farm where Grace Reynolds kindly invited him into the scullery. Peter had heard how she and Abraham were courting and he reflected on how lucky the star athlete was. The two exchanged village news, particularly about Abraham's last and forthcoming race. Then on to his cycle for the four miles back to Steepleton.

During the afternoon Arthur decided to make a number of pastoral visits, deciding to first visit old Martha Smith. How she managed to hang on to life was a mystery, to some a miracle,
but
Eleanor thought that perhaps the best blessing would have been if she had quietly passed away. He also wanted to call on Violet Rushton, still deeply grieving for her mother, and spend a little time with the very elderly Ruth Watkins. Before leaving the vicarage he went into the kitchen where Eleanor and Eliza Carey were both immersed in making jam, the fruit given by Robert Berry and the products bound for the early autumn sale at the church. ‘I'm just off to make a few visits. I especially want to see dear Martha Smith.'

‘Please give her and Liz my best wishes. Liz seemed her ever-usual self when I popped in last week, although how her mother appears cheerful when she has so much pain, I can't imagine,' said Eleanor as she kissed her husband on the cheek.

‘And please, Vicar, give her my best wishes, too,' added Eliza. Arthur had comfortably grown used to being called “Vicar” by most of the villagers. It had been “Sir” or ”Your Reverend” when he had come to Rusfield and he had felt ill at ease and distant from the villagers when these titles had been used.

He sat with Martha Smith for a good while; when Liz had called out for him to come in, she told him her mother was awake as she had taken up a mug of tea ten minutes previously. After a little exchange of pleasantries and village news, the bedridden lady asked Arthur to read to her. She pointed to the nearby ledge, Arthur noting her pathetically thin and wrinkled arm. Arthur was faintly surprised to see a bound collection of works by Sir Walter Scott.

‘I love that book,' gasped the old lady. ‘I don't know where it first came from, but my mother gave it to me. I know it so well ‘cos it taught me to read. Will you read me “The Lady of the Lake”? Leave out the first part and go straight in to the chase. I love that.'

He turned to the hundred-year-old poem and began to read. Martha listened intently, with a slight smile on her lips, as Arthur read of the stag chase. By the time of the eighth
verse,
a glance at Martha revealed her with eyes closed; the rasping breaths suggesting she was now asleep. Arthur quietly closed the book, knelt by her bed and silently offered a prayer for this fine, elderly lady, and then tiptoed down the bare, dark staircase.

On entering the back room he found Liz struggling with folding large sheets; he offered his help which she gratefully accepted. After warmly expressing her gratitude, she told Arthur how much her mother loved his visits. ‘And the times your lovely wife comes. It all does her a power of good.'

Arthur walked along the short stretch of Meadow Way, finding Violet Rushton moving some jars, mainly of sweets, prior to wiping down the shelves in her shop. ‘Oh, do come in, Vicar,' greeted the shop owner. Arthur immediately told her he had come to see her rather than make a purchase, although when he did leave he had purchased some of his favourite liquorice allsorts. As he later told Eleanor, he had found her much brighter than previously, for while talk about her mother remained the main topic, this appeared to be joyful recollections of her life.

After his final call on ninety-three-year-old Ruth Watkins, he returned to the vicarage where Eleanor immediately offered a cup of tea. ‘Let's go through to the conservatory, as the sun, though rather watery at the moment, is out,' he suggested.

Eleanor listened eagerly as Arthur told her of his visits and she had just embarked upon news learnt from Eliza Carey, when a loud knock at the door interrupted their conversation for the second time that day. ‘Wonder who it can be at this time? Certainly not Peter wanting to show us more about stamps,' said Eleanor.

‘I'll see,' replied Arthur moving rapidly through the lounge and hall to the front door. He opened it and standing there with the biggest smile he thought he had ever seen, was Susannah Jones together with her husband, Sidney, holding a letter in his one hand. The clearly delighted lady let out a
shout
of delight and threw her arms round the astonished Arthur, a shout bringing Eleanor rushing to the door to find a lady, whom at first she could not identify so buried was her head in his chest, embracing her husband.

‘Oh, Vicar, and Mrs Windle, do please forgive me, but I can never, never thank you enough.' Susannah had stepped back slightly, her cheeks aglow, still with a big smile.

‘What is it, Susannah?' asked Eleanor. ‘What has happened?'

‘Oh, it's quite amazing. Sidney, show the vicar the letter.' Sidney, never a man of many words, excitedly passed the typewritten letter to Arthur. He read it, passed it quickly to Eleanor and turning to the couple invited them in.

‘No thank you, Vicar. We want to go and tell our cousins the good news. Fancy, the brewery giving us fifty pounds and it was all because of you writing that letter.'

‘This really is wonderful,' replied Eleanor. ‘Sidney, you so deserve this because you have really suffered by losing your arm and your job. What will you do now, if you don't mind me asking?'

‘Well,' replied Sidney, ‘it's a lot of money, more than I could have earned in a long time at the brewery. We didn't think we would get anything and I can't thank you enough either, Vicar.' Arthur modestly acknowledged the compliment with a nod, thinking of how he had invoked the support of the de Maines, particularly of Isabella who, in turn, had contacted her brother, Sir Lancelot Prestwish. The pressure on the brewery owners had obviously paid dividends.

‘Anyway,' continued the excited Sidney Jones, ‘while we didn't think the brewery would give us anything, we had still dreamt of what we might do. I expect you know that Mr Somerville is thinking of selling his butchery since Charlotte his wife died. We don't know how much it would cost to buy the shop, but maybe we could manage it.'

‘And,' went on Susannah with equal excitement, ‘two of our children will soon be leaving school and they could
help
us; maybe Albert would be interested as well.' More congratulations and thanks were shared before they excused themselves, holding hands and with Susannah clasping the letter.

‘What marvellous news for them,' Eleanor said as Arthur closed the door. ‘It was good of you to help so much.'

‘And the others, too,' replied Arthur. ‘There's no doubt about it that Sir Lancelot had the most to do with it.'

The couple spent the rest of the evening in the lounge, contentedly reading. It wasn't too long before Eleanor announced that she would retire for the night. ‘You follow when you're ready, darling,' giving Arthur a light kiss on his head.

Arthur only read for a further few minutes before putting out lights and going up to his small, book-lined dressing room. His thoughts and his prayers blended to a conversation with his God. He felt close to his Maker.

‘Thank you, God, for all your gracious gifts. Thank you for Eleanor and her love, for our home and our friends in the village. Thank you for the happiness given to Susannah and Sidney Jones. I remember the Smith family; give comfort to mother and daughter, to Ruby Watkins and to Violet Rushton. May all in the village with worries be comforted and give me the strength to do what I can to help them. I ask that my parents may be helped to overcome any difficulty between them. Forgive me, Father, for all my sins, especially for the harm I have caused others.'

He stayed kneeling for a few minutes thinking of the good things that had happened that day and then listening. He quietly stood, moved to the bathroom, changed into his night clothes and a little while later joined Eleanor in their bed. They had much over which to rejoice and show their love for each other.

T
WENTY-FOUR

Sunday, 4 August

The Sunday of the August Bank Holiday surprised everyone, a fourth successive fine day. The morning service was a joyous occasion with a large congregation. Ever since the well-remembered village party in April, all had wanted to hear again, others for the first time, the singing of Eleanor Windle and Albert Jones. This morning they delighted everyone with Frederick Jerome's beautiful duet for soprano and baritone, “Thy Will be Done”. ‘It was as if two angels were singing God's praise,' Judith Johnson remarked to her husband on their way home. ‘Indeed,' replied Raymond, ‘they have such lovely voices. ‘Specially a surprise hearing young Albert.'

Not spoken out loud at matins, but silently prayed by many, had been the hope that young Abraham would do well the next day and after the service much talk was of the race and the excitement of so many who were to have the day out at Stamford Bridge. ‘It's going to be tremendous,' smiled the unusually relaxed Fred Smith. ‘I'm looking forward to it so much. I hear that we're gathering near the pond at quarter to eight, so that we've got plenty of time to walk down to Steepleton for the charabanc.'

‘That's right,' replied Willy. ‘But we don't have to walk
right
into town as the charabanc company is quite happy to meet us at Pratchetts, which will save us half a mile.'

Eleanor and Albert had been surrounded by many friends congratulating them on their wonderful singing, but as others moved away, Grace turned to Eleanor. ‘Mrs Windle, can I talk with you sometime? I realise now isn't convenient for you, but I just wondered if I could, sometime.'

‘Of course, Grace, but only if you call me Eleanor. Mrs Windle makes me feel so old and there's only a few years difference in our ages. Well, maybe slightly more than a few,' added Eleanor. ‘At least tell me what it's about. For such a beautiful morning, you look worried. If I can help, of course I will.'

‘Well, it's nothing too serious, but when I was in Steepleton library last week I couldn't help hearing two ladies talking and your name came up… Eleanor,' she hesitatingly added.

‘Really? I hope they didn't say anything too awful about me,' she smiled.

‘Of course not. How could they, about you! No, they were talking about a meeting of women who support voting rights and your name was mentioned. One of them said that you had been at a meeting.'

‘That's right,' replied Eleanor, ‘but why do you mention this?'

‘Well, I've thought a lot about the suffragettes ever since I read a newspaper article. I think everyone should be able to vote and I wondered whether you thought I should join them. I know I would be too young to vote, but I think it's something important for all of us.' She had become a little breathless as she rushed out her feelings and her face was made all the more attractive with its pink glow.

‘Well, you must come round to tea sometime and we can talk it all over. Tomorrow, when we will have an opportunity to chat, we must arrange a time. Perhaps next weekend or one evening if you wish.'

As
Eleanor moved away, her place next to Grace was taken by Abraham. ‘Grace, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry there won't be time to go for a walk this afternoon, although I would have loved that. You know how James Bagshott, the fellow I've raced against a couple of times, has invited me to stay tonight at his home in Ealing. It's good because Jack Atkins is coming as well and really kind of James as it means we won't be rushed if anything goes wrong. So we're catching the quarter to four train from Steepleton which means we shouldn't get to his house too late.'

Grace smiled, ‘Of course, and you must not allow anything to go wrong. Keep your rushing for the race.' She reached out and held his hand.

‘Thank you, Grace. And I want to say, how gorgeous you look today.' He added, a little hesitatingly, ‘You always do, but that is a particularly beautiful frock. I love the colours.'

‘Thank you Abraham. I'm glad you like
this
frock.' Abraham noticed how Grace put a particular emphasis on the word “this”. He also noticed her face embracing a broad smile.

‘Grace, am I missing something? I just wanted to say how I liked this frock, but you made it sound as if I almost didn't like what you usually wear.'

‘Not at all. You are very kind about what I wear, but I just remember a time when that wasn't so.' Her smile became broader.

‘Grace, I'm sorry, but I don't remember that.'

‘I know you don't. It was at the party several years ago when we were celebrating leaving school. I spent hours making a lovely green and orange frock for the occasion, just for you, and you never noticed. You were just mucking about with the boys.' She reached out and took his hand and gave him a light kiss on his cheek. ‘I've still got the frock so maybe I should wear it. Trouble is I don't think it would fit.'

Abraham looked at her glorious figure. ‘I don't think it
would,'
he blushed. They were the last to leave the church grounds.