A Blessing In Disguise (31 page)

It's now three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon and I'm at the Deanery meeting, which takes place in Brampton and is attended by all the clergy from the fifteen parishes in the Deanery, whether priests or deacons. When I was at Holy Trinity I went to the Deanery meetings. I didn't enjoy them much then and I don't suppose I shall today. I am the only woman here in what is, and I daresay will be for a long time, a man's world. But there's no sense in moaning about that, and I'm not doing so. I knew what I was letting myself in for.

Everyone mills about before the meeting starts. They mostly know each other, they are all boys together. Bitchy remarks fly around – not about me, presumably about each other, about those who should be here and are absent, or about clergy higher up the ladder; about who might be promoted next, and whether they are worthy. They tell each other jokes, some of which are too
risqué
for me to repeat, though if I am standing close they tend to lower their voices on the punchline. They needn't bother. I'm a big girl now. I think it's a male thing, telling jokes. Actually, none of them are rude to me, unless you like to call ignoring me almost completely rude, and I expect that will change as they get to know me.

The Rural Dean – the boss man of this meeting, whom of course I've met before – introduces and welcomes me. He is a charming man. To be fair to them, one or two clergy did speak to me before the meeting started, and now a couple of others turn around and give me a smile of welcome. I must be careful not to get a chip on my shoulder about this man/woman thing. Poor darlings, it's probably just as hard for them!

We talk about services, we talk about the difficulty, sometimes impossibility, of getting cover when we're away for any reason. There just aren't enough priests to go round. And, inevitably, we talk about finance. Was there ever a church meeting, large or small, where finance wasn't on the agenda? I was never at one. It isn't that we're mad keen to do so – though one or two thoroughly enjoy it – but that we're always short of money to do the things we have to do if we're to keep going. There's a widespread idea among non-churchgoers that the Church of England is financed by the state. It comes out of taxes. Not so! Oh, most definitely not so! It is kept going by the people in the pews. It is kept going by jumble sales, church fairs, raffles, special collections. Imagine having a raffle to keep up with the running of Buckingham Palace!

When it's over the Rural Dean says good-bye to me – as do one or two others – says he's glad I could come and tells me he hopes to visit us in St Mary's ere too long.

I stay in Brampton for a while to do some shopping for Thursday's supper. I can't get everything in the village. When I get back to the Vicarage there's a message on the answerphone to call Cliff Preston, which I do.

‘How are you?' he asks. I tell him I'm well, ask how he is. He tells me he's well, then says, ‘A funeral next Tuesday, can you do?'

‘Yes, as long as it doesn't clash with the ten o'clock Eucharist,' I say. ‘Anyone I know?'

‘No,' he says. ‘Not a churchgoer. But a service in church and then the crematorium. Eleven o'clock all right?'

We mention the service sheets, which he says will be done by a local printer after I've given him the details. ‘If we had a printer,' I say, we could do all the service sheets for weddings and funerals. We could make a bit of profit.'

‘Well, why not do it?' Cliff asks. ‘It sounds sensible.'

‘It is sensible,' I agree, ‘but I can't see the PCC voting to buy a printer. We haven't the money.'

But if we had a printer, I'm thinking, perhaps we could do our own parish magazine instead of paying for it to be produced. So after I've spoken to Cliff I go and add it to my list.

‘Printer – service sheets, magazine: Source of income?'

The supper party goes very well. The food – you don't want to know the whole menu, do you? – went down well, and I'd chosen a nice wine, though most of them also brought a bottle of wine with them. This must be the way it is in Thurston. We found plenty to talk about, both through the meal and afterwards, around the table. I told them about the burglary, and they were both appalled and sympathetic.

‘I've told her, she should have given me a ring,' Nigel said. ‘I'd have been round here at once!'

‘Me too!' Mark said.

What a lovely thought! Two men rushing to my rescue!

‘I rang Henry Nugent,' I said. ‘Poor Henry! I'm afraid I always turn to him.'

‘Because he's your churchwarden,' Evelyn says, sensibly. ‘Anyway, I'm glad Becky wasn't here.'

‘So am I,' I agree. And that's all we say about Becky.

‘Henry thinks I should get a dog,' I tell them.

‘That's not a bad idea,' Sonia says. ‘I'm sure Becky would like that, and you'd feel safer when you had to leave her in.'

‘I had already been thinking about it,' I admit. ‘Perhaps I'll do something.'

‘Get a big one!' Mark Dover advises. ‘Choose one which looks as though it'll tear a burglar to pieces the minute he sets foot!'

‘Oh, Mark, do be practical!' I protest. ‘How would Becky cope with a great big dog? If I do get one, she has to learn to take her share of looking after it. How would
I
cope with it for that matter?'

‘No more difficult than a small one,' Mark says.

‘Choose a small one which makes a lot of noise,' Evelyn suggests. ‘Probably the noise is enough to frighten away someone who's up to no good.'

After this everyone gives their view of dogs they have known, everyone has a relevant anecdote, and then they decide what would be best for me. At a point when this conversation seems like going on for ever, Mark breaks in. I think he's had enough of dogs.

‘Has Venus told you I'm going to paint her portrait?' he asks.

There's a short, surprised silence and I sense there's maybe a slight feeling that it's something which has been arranged behind everyone's back. I also have the feeling, I can't pin down why, that Mark Dover is possibly, though not to any great degree,
persona non grata
.

‘It's not quite fixed . . .' I begin.

‘Oh yes it is!' Mark says. ‘You promised me! You can't deny it, and I won't let you off!'

He is flirting with me! I can't quite say how I know this, but I do. I know flirting when I encounter it. Perhaps it's something in the intimacy in his voice.

Do I want this? I'm not sure. I like Mark, I like him very much indeed. He's easy to talk to and he doesn't hold back. There's no reason why I should dislike it. I'm a woman, and it's a normal feeling for a woman to be pleased, or certainly not displeased, when an attractive man flirts with her. And I'm free to be flirted with. Not that one has to be free, not just for flirting. Philip knew how to flirt. He flirted with most of my women friends, especially if they were pretty. It didn't mean anything, or nothing serious. It was me he loved. And when I say it didn't mean anything I'm not being derogatory. Flirting is pleasant. It oils the wheels. It lightens life.

Did I ever flirt when Philip was alive? I'm not sure. I doubt I was very good at it but it's a safe sort of thing, especially when one is secure in one's marriage.

Is it the fact that I'm a priest, and therefore supposedly inaccessible, which attracts Mark? Is that why he wants to paint me in my cassock?

But on my side the fact that I'm a priest doesn't mean that I don't have a woman's feelings. It doesn't mean that I'm sexless. I had thought when Philip died, that this was the end of all sexual feeling for me. Who other than Philip could arouse that in me? But Nature doesn't let go so easily. She waits – but she doesn't go away.

‘So when?' Mark persists – and to keep him quiet I agree to Monday afternoon.

No-one leaves until after midnight, and then there is a mass exodus. When I close the door on my friends I feel elated, stimulated – and a little bereft – all at the same time: bereft because I'm left on my own, but then I remind myself that Sonia, Mark and Nigel are all going home alone, only the Sharps are a couple. Sometimes I have the feeling that the world is made up of couples, but it ain't necessarily so!

I say my night prayers in bed, which might not be entirely respectful to God, but I do say them with a thankful heart. It was a good evening.

When the phone rings just after nine o'clock this morning it's Henry, to tell me that he's pinned Richard down and they'll both be with me this evening. Eight o'clock.

‘Great,' I say. ‘Thanks a million, Henry!'

I feel pleased with life. I shall spend as much of the day as I can in thinking out my plans and writing everything down, trying to anticipate every question Henry and Richard might put to me so that I can be ready with an answer. I shall banish Miss Frazer from my mind. I've already obeyed the Bishop and remembered her in my morning prayers and that's the sum total of what she'll get from me today. So, for the moment, I shall leave Miss Frazer to God. He'll make a better job of it – though I know, even as I think this, that what God will do is work through someone else. He has the knack of that. And perhaps it won't be me. I'm not sure I'd be the right person. Anyway, enough of that for now. I have exciting and very, very positive things to think about.

I am getting on nicely, I've made lots of notes, when, at ten o'clock, the phone rings again. It's the Bishop.

He goes through the preliminaries, like ‘How are you?', ‘Nice day, isn't it?', then he says, ‘I've had another letter from Miss Frazer!'

‘Damn Miss Frazer . . . !' I start to say, and then I remember who I'm talking to.

If he's heard me, and I'm sure he must have, he ignores it.

‘A very angry letter,' he says. ‘In reply to mine, of course. I couldn't expect not to receive one, could I? Anyway, I thought I'd better ring you, put you in the picture so you'd know what her latest is.'

‘Thank you,' is all I can think of to say.

‘As I said,' he continues, ‘she's angry. I won't read every word to you, just give you the gist of it. She draws attention to how long she and her family have worshipped in St Mary's, how they've unstintingly supported the church – and she includes a catalogue of all the things the Frazer family have done over the years, which I must say is an impressive one. Not that I think one has to be grateful for evermore for things given. I expect she's one of those persons who give something and then continue to keep an eye open to see what's being done with it. When I was small I had an aunt like that. She'd give one a birthday present and then keep tabs on how it was being treated. I had to make sure it was on show every time she visited. But I'm digressing, and I mustn't.'

I quite liked his digression. It's difficult to think of such a senior bishop having once been a small boy with a difficult aunt.

‘Miss Frazer tells me she has no intention of worshipping in another church,' he says. ‘She will continue at St Mary's. “I will not be driven out” is the way she puts it. But no way will she take communion from a woman, a . . .' He pauses briefly, as if he was deciding whether or not to say the next bit, and then decides he will: ‘. . . “a so-called priest.” And because I will not agree to have you moved she states that she is being deprived of her weekly communion.'

‘I'm sorry, Bishop . . .' I begin.

‘There is no reason for you to apologize,' he breaks in. ‘You are not depriving her, I am not depriving her; she is doing it to herself. She is making the choice. A wrong choice, I believe, but hers to make. You are not responsible and you must not allow yourself to think that you are. I don't know what she will do. It would be better if she just didn't come to the altar – and I told her this in my previous letter. But you are to stand no nonsense from her in your church and you mustn't hesitate to call on your churchwardens for help.'

‘I will,' I promise. ‘Let's hope it doesn't come to that!'

‘And then there's the next bit,' he says. ‘She goes on to tell me that in the circumstances she is withdrawing all her financial support from St Mary's, immediately. But that was to be expected, wasn't it? So don't worry too much about that either.'

‘I'm sorry about it,' I say, ‘but yes, I did expect it. In fact I'm already starting to think of ways to remedy it!'

‘Good!' he says. ‘Later on you must tell me what they are. It won't be easy. It was a large amount, as I'm sure you and everyone else is aware. I gather Miss Frazer was not one to keep quiet about her good works. However, I shall send a short reply to this last letter. I shall express my regrets, I shall thank her, yet again, for all she has done for St Mary's and I shall repeat that I have every confidence in you and there is no way at all you are likely to be moved.'

‘Thank you, Bishop!' I say.

‘Keep me in the picture,' he says. ‘Tell Henry Nugent to ring me.' And then he gives me a blessing, at which I immediately feel better, and rings off.

Henry and Richard arrive together, right on time.

‘I did wonder,' Henry says as we take our seats around the table, ‘whether we should ask Rose Barker, as the PCC secretary. I thought it might be useful to have her take notes, but in the end I thought not. It is, after all, just an informal meeting to talk things over.'

I get a faint whiff of danger here. Does ‘informal' mean ‘not-all-that-important'? Because if it does I'm already in opposition, which is not what I wanted. Some disagreements I expect, but a fight – especially with my churchwardens – I don't want. But calm down, I tell myself. Stop putting too much emphasis simply on a choice of words.

‘So you kick off, Venus,' Henry says. ‘You tell us what you have in mind and we'll tell you whether we think it will work.'