A Blessing In Disguise (33 page)

‘Of course we are!' Becky protests. ‘I love dogs.'

‘I know you do,' I agree. ‘And I'm prepared to love the right dog. But there's a lot more to it!' And then I remember the books I have from the library, which I've not yet returned. ‘Wait a minute!' I say to Becky. I go and fetch the books from my bedroom. ‘Here you are! Read these. And then when we go to the Rescue Centre I'm sure you'll get points for that.'

She starts to read, avidly, but it doesn't keep her quiet because she keeps reading bits aloud to the rest of us. By evening Dad has had enough. It's not that he doesn't like dogs, it's not that he isn't interested in moving to Thurston, but there's a limit to what can be said at this stage, and he's reached it. So he takes himself off to the Ewe Lamb, Becky takes herself off to bed with the books and my mother and I watch television, which is its usual Saturday night rubbish.

I slept well last night, and now Sunday is here. I've done the eight o'clock and people are coming in for the ten o'clock. It wants only two minutes to ten, but there is no sign of Miss Frazer. Nor, as a matter of fact, is there any sign of Mrs Bateman. When the church clock strikes ten I go in and take my place. If Miss Frazer has timed it to appear right now she could make a really dramatic entrance, but no, she doesn't. She doesn't appear and the service goes as smoothly as silk. Nor is she lying in wait when we leave the church. God is good!

I go into coffee. Miss Frazer is not mentioned to me by anyone and a surprising number of people go out of their way to be affable towards me, asking how I am, and if I'm feeling better. Someone says, ‘Do sit down, Vicar! I'll get your coffee!' I can't think why this is until someone says, ‘It happened to my sister and it took her ages to get over it,' and then I realize all this goodwill is lingering because of the burglary. How kind! How sympathetic!

It's while I'm waiting for my coffee that the church treasurer, George Phillipson, joins me.

‘I phoned you yesterday morning but you must have been out. I didn't leave a message on your answerphone because, actually, I thought it was a face-to-face matter, and in any case I was going to be out myself for the rest of the day. I always go to visit my son on a Saturday. It's awful, isn't it?'

I'm confused, and I must look it, because he says, ‘Don't say you haven't heard!'

‘Heard what?' I ask.

‘I was sure you would have. When I couldn't get you, I told Henry. It's Miss Frazer! I had a letter from her. She's written to the bank and cancelled everything!'

‘That doesn't surprise me,' I reply. ‘Did she give a reason?' Not that I don't know the reason.

He looks embarrassed. ‘Well . . .' Then he hesitates.

‘Come on George, you can tell me!' I say.

‘Well, to tell the truth she said not a penny more would we get out of her while St Mary's allowed itself
to be led by a heretic
! I really thought that was a bit strong – I don't mean about the money, I'm thinking of what she said about you! Most uncalled for!'

I don't know whether to laugh or cry, or to beat my fists on the table! The lady certainly has a rare turn of phrase.

‘She also said that this wasn't the end. I don't know what she means by that since she's chopped off every penny!' he says. ‘What more can she do?'

‘She'll think of something!' I say. ‘But never mind, George. We'll also think of something. I'm sure there are lots of things we can do. We'll discuss it at the next PCC meeting.'

I see Becky off to school this morning after the half-term break. I can't say either of us is totally happy, but I pin my hopes on the steps Evelyn Sharp has taken and especially in her assurance that a close watch will be kept on Becky. Without sounding worried I remind Becky that if she has any problem at all she should seek out Mrs Fawcett at break time or dinnertime, and tell her about it. I also remind her, and this does seem to cheer her up, that Mr Beagle will be back today. I ask if she would like me to walk down to school with her but she will have none of that.

‘Well then, have a good day!' I say.

She's a bit tearful about leaving her Grandma and Granddad but my mother says, ‘Just remember, Becky love, it won't be long before we're living in Thurston. We'll be able to see each other every day then.'

My parents decide that before they leave for Clipton they'll walk down the High Street and take a look in the estate agent's window, just to see what's on offer and to get an idea of prices. Actually, it's my mother who decides. Dad thinks it's too soon. ‘We should wait a bit!' he protests. ‘See how we go with selling ours. It could take months!'

My mother raises her eyes to heaven.

‘Oh, Ernest,' she complains, ‘you are a wet blanket! In any case we're only going to look in the window. We're not going to march into the office and buy a place on the spot! Are you coming with us, love?' she asks, turning to me.

‘Try keeping me away!' I say. ‘And cheer up, Dad! No-one's going to take any money off you just yet!'

Thurston is not a big village but it has two estate agents though I can't imagine how they can both make a profit because one sees very few ‘For Sale' signs on houses around here. Obviously, we shall visit both of them. They are both in the High Street: Hanson's, opposite Gander's, the baker, is the first we come to, Trim & Parker's is a little lower down on the same side. They look more or less identical from the outside, smartly painted in black and white, large window filled with cards giving glowing details and colour photographs, every property a ‘Des Res'.

Dad is shocked to the core by the prices. ‘We'd never afford that, Mavis!' he says, even of the smallest property. ‘It's outrageous! Daylight robbery!'

‘Don't be silly, Ernest!' my mother says. ‘It's all in accordance with what we get for ours. House prices have shot up!'

Hanson's window, however, reveals nothing quite small enough for them, at least not situated in the village, and they don't want to live far out so we walk down to Trim & Parker's and, alas, nor is there anything there which catches the eye.

‘Why don't we go in and ask?' I suggest. ‘I don't suppose everything they have is in the window.'

My mother is keen to do that; Dad isn't. I hold the balance so in we go. A charming young man who introduces himself as Rowan Trim flips through two card indexes. ‘Something small,' he murmurs. ‘Two bedrooms, in or near to the village. Well, I'm afraid it does appear there's nothing on the books at the moment which would fill the bill. But new ones come in all the time,' he adds (which I can't quite believe). ‘Let me take your details and the minute there is something I'll put it in the post to you!' There follows a discussion as to whether it would be better to send the details to me or to Clipton, but in the end it's decided they should go to both.

‘Oh,' says Mr Trim, as I give my address, ‘then you must be the new Vicar! I have to confess I don't get to church often. Sunday is a busy day!'

On the way back we decide that we might as well give Hanson's a try, it's only fair, so we call in and there we go through exactly the same procedure except that Mr Hanson is afraid he doesn't go to church because he's in a football team which plays on Sunday mornings, and he can't let them down, can he?

Halfway back to the Vicarage I remember that I need a wholemeal loaf, so my parents go on and I return to Gander's.

‘I saw you going into Hanson's,' Dulcie Gander remarks – and waits for an explanation. And since I reckon she has her ear to the ground at least as much as Hanson's or Mr Trim, I give it to her.

‘I'll keep my eyes open,' she promises.

So now my parents have departed, my mother on a high, ready for anything, as excited as a girl. Dad is not so – or if he is he's keeping it hidden. It isn't that he doesn't want to come to Thurston, I know he does, but whereas my mother will revel in every last little arrangement, taking it all in her stride, Dad would like to go to sleep one night in his present bedroom and waken next morning in the new bedroom in Thurston, with everything, right down to his sock drawer, in the same place he's been used to in Clipton.

I do a few odd jobs, then I get ready to go to Mark Dover's for the first sitting of my portrait. I change into my cassock, put on a clean, white collar, fix two or three heated rollers in the top of my hair – I do want to look as feminine as possible and actually I would like to have had Sandra give me a blow dry but that might have been a bit over the top, so I do the best I can. Then I spend quite some time putting on my make-up to make it appear as though I'm not wearing any at all but am just radiantly healthy. Then I'm into my car, driving up the road, and ringing Mark's doorbell. He's a long time answering and I begin to wonder if I've got the day wrong, or the time, until in the end he opens the door.

‘I'm sorry!' he says. ‘I was out at the back, in the studio, getting things ready. Shall we go straight out?' He sounds very businesslike and I hope that's how he's going to be.

The canvas is already on the easel, and there is a rather nice chair with polished wooden arms, the seat and back upholstered in a dull red material, set up two or three yards away in which he invites me to sit.

‘Would you like a cup of tea or a drink of water or anything before we make a start?' he asks, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that this is not what he wants me to do, he wants to get on with things. So I say, ‘No, thank you.'

‘Good!' he says. ‘Now it's important that you sit comfortably, or you'll fidget. So take your time!' (But not too much of it, his tone of voice says.)

‘How would you like me to sit?' I ask. ‘Straight-backed? Relaxed? Bending forward a bit?'

‘Just sit!' he says. ‘You'll find it more comfortable if you sit back in the chair, and fairly upright. If you slouch to begin with you'll eventually find yourself sliding down.'

So I do as I'm told and I put a hand on each chair arm and I think I'm probably posed quite well. He looks at me critically, eyes narrowed, then he comes across to me, takes my hands from the chair arms and puts them together in my lap, the right one resting lightly on the left. Then he puts a finger under my chin and slightly tilts my head while turning it so that I'm looking to the left. But that's still not quite right. He does all this quite impersonally, as though I am a rag doll, not flesh and blood.

‘I want you looking
slightly
to the left,' he explains, ‘so that we get a suggestion of your profile – you have rather a nice profile, by the way! But though your head is turned a little I want your eyes to be looking directly at me. I find it very important in a portrait that the model has eye contact with me.' This, I think, as I fix my gaze on his rather beautiful dark eyes and he looks straight back at me, is not quite so impersonal, though perhaps he's seeing me merely as features and colours on a canvas.

‘Right!' he says, ‘I'll make a start. I'm going to block it in, get the position, get the angles and the proportions. About twenty minutes if you can hold it that long. If you can't hold the pose just give me a sign. I must say, Venus, you look very fetching in that cassock and the white collar! Did you join the priesthood to get the uniform? No! Don't smile,' his voice is suddenly sharp. ‘If you smile you move your body. Hold it!'

I will hold it if it kills me! I will imagine that I have been turned into a block of stone, that there is no way whatsoever that I can move so much as one joint of my little finger, not even an eyelash!

‘You've gone all rigid,' he says. ‘Don't be rigid. It shows in your face. Be relaxed, but still!'

For the next twenty minutes he doesn't speak, and nor do I because I don't dare to. There is a pain in the small of my back which is killing me and an itch on the end of my nose which I would give a year of my life to be able to scratch, but eventually he says, ‘There! That's fine! We'll take a break. I suggest you move around a bit.'

Miraculously, now that I've been given permission to scratch it, the itch on my nose has disappeared.

I drift around the studio, looking at the paintings and sipping a drink of water. There is no time for luxuries like coffee. Mark takes no break at all, he is busy mixing colours on his palette and making some adjustments to the canvas and he hardly speaks. All his concentration is on the job in hand. I rather like him in this mood.

‘Right!' he says. ‘Back to work?'

He comes and moves me around as he wants to – the rag doll bit – taking his references from the work he's done on the canvas, then he starts to paint again.

I sit still, not speaking for fear I should move the wrong muscle. What I do discover about sitting is that though one has to control one's body, the mind is free to wander everywhere, and indeed mine does. It goes from where my parents might find a property, to how is Becky doing at school, to Miss Frazer, to the Bishop, to last week's supper party – taking in Sonia, Nigel, the Sharps, and Mark himself – who is looking at me more intently than I've ever been looked at in my life, yet seeing, I presume, nothing beyond my outward appearance. I then branch out and wonder how it feels to be the Queen, sitting for those endless portraits, and I wonder where
her
thoughts wander. Is she thinking, ‘What will my family do next?'

The thought of family brings me back to Becky. I am anxious to see her after this first day back at school.

‘There!' Mark says at long last, standing back from the canvas. ‘I think that's it for today. You're free to move!'

I stand up and stretch myself. ‘Can I look at it?' I ask.

‘Yes,' Mark says. ‘As long as you remember that it's only just begun.'