A Blessing In Disguise (11 page)

Then, since the doctor is waiting, I leave the ward quickly. Nigel is waiting on a seat in the corridor. ‘All right?' he asks.

I nod, and as we walk back to the car he says nothing more, for which I'm pleased. I know this visit is no different from many others I've done, and yet it is, because in the very short space in which I'm with the dying person – and I'm pretty sure Mary Parker is dying – that person becomes the most important individual, not just one of several. No-one else impinges. The only thing I can think of which is equally awesome to being in the presence of a soul close to leaving this world is being there at the moment a baby is born into it.

Ten minutes later, we are back at the house and Sonia is opening the door to us. I'd looked at the clock in the car and realized we've been away only slightly more than half an hour, and yet it seems a little lifetime set apart and as Sonia opens the door I feel as though I was stepping from one world into another.

‘Was everything all right?' she asked. ‘Were you in time?'

‘I was,' I tell her. ‘I don't think she'll be with us tomorrow.'

Everyone is still sitting at the table and Nigel and I resume our places. No-one asks me anything. They are obviously still only part way through the main course. Everything is bright – no, not bright because we are in candlelight, but warm and welcoming.

‘Yours is keeping hot in the oven,' Sonia says. ‘That's the beauty of a casserole, isn't it? Are you hungry?'

Curiously enough, I am. I feel as though sustenance for the body will repair my spirit. It's a very superior casserole –
Boeuf Bourguignonne
I would say. I tuck into it and notice that Nigel is doing the same, and I accept the glass of rather nice Bordeaux which Sonia pours for me. ‘If you're worried about driving, one of us will take you home,' she says. But I had less than a glass of the white wine before supper so I'm not. Since some people are apparently having seconds of the casserole, both Nigel and I manage to empty our plates without keeping the rest waiting.

The pudding which follows is pure heaven, a sort of vanilla-flavoured, creamy, chocolaty crème brûlée with a golden caramel topping.

‘This is wonderful,' I tell Sonia.

‘Thank you,' Sonia says. ‘I can't take all the credit. It's a Jamie Oliver recipe. I'm deep into Jamie Oliver.' There follows a ten-minute tribute to Jamie Oliver from all, especially from the women who agree that he's the kind of boy one would like to have for a son. Everything by now seems back to normal, as of course it should. Sonia and Nigel, being doctors, know all about moving from one life to another without detriment to either.

Afterwards, we remain at the table, talking. They are an articulate lot. The conversation ranges from the latest film – which the Sharps and Mark have seen, and mildly disagree about, but the rest of us haven't; it's an age since I went to the cinema – to this summer's holidays. Mark has been painting in Venice. ‘I love Venice,' I tell him. ‘I went there once with my husband. The islands – Burano and Torcello; and the buildings, the paintings . . .' And then I come to a sudden stop. It was my last holiday with Philip. We left Becky with my parents while we went on a four-day trip, which was all Philip could cope with. Now I remember it so vividly that for the moment I can't go on, and I think this might also have something to do with my visit to Mary Parker.

‘Then I must show you my paintings some time,' Mark says in a calm voice, after only the briefest pause.

I recover myself. I think Sonia must have told them about Philip before I arrived since no-one asks one question more about the holiday. And from there, though I don't quite know how, we move on to politics. I gather that we are all to the left, though there are differing opinions about Tony Blair. I'd marked Evelyn Sharp down as a Tory, I don't know why. She certainly isn't. No-one, and let me tell you this is unusual, makes a point of telling me that they're not a Christian, and
why
they're not, expecting me to come back at them with a speech for the defence. No-one makes an apology for not attending church (with the usual addition that it was what they were brought up to and perhaps they should mend their ways). I've heard it all before and thank goodness they don't give it to me. They're a nice bunch.

Then the conversation takes another turn and Colin Sharp says, ‘So are you going to enjoy being Vicar of St Mary's?'

I come down to earth with a bump. Since Tuesday what Miss Frazer did has never been out of my mind – until this evening. I have risen with it in the morning and taken it to bed with me at night. I have relived every second of those scenes in the church and the church porch. I know it's wrong to brood on it and I do try not to. I have heard of similar things happening to other women priests and, though I've sympathized with them and been angry with those who did such things to them, I have never envisaged how much it hurt, how great the shock could be. I know I should leave it to God – as the old hymn says, ‘Take it to the Lord in prayer' – and that I've done. The trouble is that God doesn't answer instantly and I am impatient. Where is it going to end, I want to know? And how and when?

‘I hope so,' I say. ‘I do like what I've seen of the village. I expect to settle down quite quickly.' No use telling them what's troubling me. Nice as they are, intelligent as they are, I couldn't expect them to understand.

Then, out of habit, I look at my watch and see it's ten past eleven. Evelyn Sharp sees me doing this and says: ‘Are you worried about Becky, is it time for your sitter to leave?'

‘Actually no, not on this occasion.' I explain that Becky's with my parents.

Evelyn looks surprised.

‘She'll be back tomorrow,' I tell her. ‘And in school on Monday morning.'

‘Good!' she says. ‘We'll look after her. But bring her yourself as it's her first day.'

Soon after this there's a general, though not rushed, movement towards leaving, but this is then delayed until after midnight as other topics are discussed.

‘I'll give you a lift home, Venus,' Mark Dover says eventually.

‘Actually,' Nigel chips in, ‘I have to go past the Vicarage. I could drop you.'

‘How kind of both of you,' I tell them, and remind them that, in fact, I have my car!

When I wake on Saturday morning a shaft of sunlight is penetrating the gap in the middle where the curtains don't quite meet and making a narrow path across the floor. They were not made for this window. I brought them with me from Clipton and as soon as I can afford to I must buy, or make, some which will fit. But the fact that the sun is lighting up the bedroom means not only that it's a nice day but it's later than I thought. I've overslept, no doubt because I deliberately allowed myself the luxury of not setting the alarm. As far as I know, but with one telephone call it could all go awry, I have a free day. No services, no wedding booked – the wedding season is more or less over – no other appointments, and Becky and my parents aren't due until around five. Tomorrow's sermon is in my head and I might or might not make a few notes.

So I will have a leisurely breakfast and then I will do some shopping in the village.

My mother did all the shopping while she was here. ‘You needn't worry about it,' she said. ‘I shall drive into Brampton and go to Sainsbury's. Sainsbury's is what I'm used to. I suppose it's much like the one in Clipton. I like everything under one roof and they always have a car park.'

‘That's fine,' I told her, ‘but since I'm the parish priest I must shop in the village as much as I can.'

‘You do that, love!' she said. ‘In the meantime I'll stock up a few things from Sainsbury's.'

I don't yet know which shops I should go to. There are two butchers, so I suppose I should try to split my purchases between them, or visit them turn and turn about? Ditto the two greengrocers. All in all it will be a delicate operation. However, I intend to ring Sonia Leyton to thank her for last evening so I could ask her advice about the shops. I wonder if she has a Saturday morning surgery?

I ring immediately after breakfast.

‘There is a surgery, but only for emergencies,' the receptionist says. ‘This morning Doctor Baines is taking it. Would you like to speak to him?' I would actually, but I resist the temptation.

‘It's not an emergency,' I tell her. ‘I just want a word with Doctor Leyton on a private matter. Would it be possible for me to have her private number? I'm Venus Stanton, the new Vicar.'

That seems to be a good enough password and she gives me the number.

‘It was a lovely evening,' I tell Sonia. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me.'

‘It was a pleasure to have you,' she assures me.

I enquire about the shops. ‘I think I should shop in the village as far as I can,' I say.

‘Oh absolutely!' she agrees. ‘Well, let's see. Manson's is a good butcher, but Joss Barker also sells fresh fish – there's no other fish shop in Thurston – and his sausages and cold meats are good. The Manson family have been here for years but Joss Barker came only about three years ago. He's a bit more up to date. As for the greengrocers, Chalmers' – he's down by the crossroads – has the best selection of fruit and vegetables, more adventurous, but Winterton's delivers, which can be a boon.' She gives me a quick resumé of the other food shops. ‘And you'll discover we don't have a bookshop and not much in the way of stationery so you can go to W.H. Smith's in Brampton with a clear conscience. There's the library, of course. Open three days a week, of which one is Saturday. I don't remember the other two. I don't get much time for reading and most of it's medical journals.'

‘Well, thanks for the info,' I say. ‘It's very useful. And thank you again for last evening.'

I hope I do see some of them again before too long. Evelyn Sharp I shall see at school from time to time, starting with Monday morning when I take Becky. Nigel Baines lives in Thurston and Mark Dover not very far away so I might meet up with them in the village. I'm looking forward to the time, hopefully not far off, when I'll walk down the High Street and be constantly waylaid by people I know.

The shopping goes OK. It being Saturday I don't walk around in my cassock. I've always liked to keep Saturdays as home and family days, so on this occasion no-one, unless they've already been to church, knows I'm the new Vicar and I shan't be announcing it in the shops. In Manson's I buy a shoulder of lamb for tomorrow's lunch and in Barker's some haddock for this evening's supper, also some delicious-looking boiled ham which Mr Barker tells me he has cooked himself. Joss Barker looks too young to be running a butcher's shop, cooking hams. Why do I expect a butcher to be middle-aged, ruddy complexioned, and on the plump side? Mr Manson certainly fills the bill, but not Joss Barker.

As Chalmers' is farther down the street I leave it for another day and go into Winterton's. By the time I've finished I'm piled high with shopping and Mr Winterton (I presume) says shall he deliver it for me?

‘Thanks for the offer but I don't have far to go, only to the Vicarage,' I tell him.

‘Oh! So you're the new Vicar, are you?' he says pleasantly. ‘Well, welcome to you, and thank you for coming in. Are you sure I can't send the stuff up for you?'

‘Quite sure, but thank you. And don't you hesitate to pop in and see me at St Mary's!' I say lightly.

He grins at my cheek. ‘Stranger things have happened! In fact we've got a new granddaughter, so we'll be bringing her to have her done.' That's what they often say when they want the child baptized. I've become used to answering the phone and hearing ‘Can I have my baby done?' What I want to reply is, ‘Yes Madam. Rare, medium or well-done?' But so far I've bitten it back. I love ‘doing' babies.

‘Give me a ring,' I say to Mr Winterton. ‘I'll be delighted to do it. Perhaps it will be my first baptism in my new parish. Always rather special, that!'

I haven't gone more than half-a-dozen yards up the High Street, on my way back to the Vicarage, when I almost literally bump into Mark Dover. If he hadn't put up a hand to stop me I would have done so because I am peering in my short-sighted way across the street at a woman I think might be Carla Brown – but isn't.

‘Hey!' Mark says. ‘Good-morning, Venus! You look as though you're in a tearing hurry to get somewhere!'

‘Hello!' I say. ‘I'm sorry if I nearly knocked you down. I wasn't looking where I was going.'

‘So where are you going?' he asks.

‘Back to the Vicarage. I've been doing some shopping.' What else, since I'm carrying three plastic bags full of food. ‘My parents are bringing my daughter back this evening. I have to cook.'

‘Then if they're not arriving until evening and it's now only eleven in the morning you'll have time for a coffee?' Mark says reasonably. ‘After which I'll carry your bags back home for you.'

‘I'd enjoy coffee,' I tell him. ‘But you needn't act as bag carrier. Where does one go for coffee?' I suppose I should let him carry the bags back and then make coffee at the Vicarage, but I don't.

‘Gander's, the baker's, has a room at the back. Or there's the Black Cat Café.'

‘You choose,' I say.

‘On the whole,' he says, ‘the baker's. They do very good fruit buns, and cream cakes to die for.'

He strikes me as far too sophisticated to eat cream cakes in the village bakery, but perhaps it's the thing to do. He takes my bags and we walk down the road.

‘You're right,' I tell him fifteen minutes later, biting into a chocolate éclair. ‘This is exceptionally good!'

‘It being Saturday,' he says, ‘you're allowed a second one. Now tell me, how are you getting on in Thurston? You didn't say much last night. Are the natives being kind to you?'