A Blessing In Disguise (38 page)

The only good thing I can find to say about housework is that most of it can be done while thinking about other things. I've always done that. When I was a little girl my mother – I think it was for the good of my soul, she thought it was character-building – made me polish the silver once a month. All the cutlery and various other bits and bobs were laid out on the kitchen table in front of me and I sat there with my tin of magic wadding, which started out pristine pink and quickly turned black with use, and the soft yellow dusters which were kept for the silver, but actually I wasn't there – except in the flesh. I was away, I was in another world. It's easy to clean silver without giving it more than an occasional passing thought. I don't have much silver but fortunately it's a gift I can apply to most household chores.

It's important for a priest to spend time thinking, to empty the head of all the clutter which gathers there and to concentrate on the nature of more important things. I know I should set apart time to do this every day of my life but I don't always manage it. I say my Office but even that is sometimes more rushed than it should be. A priest should also spend time reading – not just reading the Bible, though that's of first importance, but other books, and the newspapers. I should know what's going on in the world, what's happening in politics, showing on television. Indeed I should be aware of anything which touches the lives of my parishioners. I need to be streetwise. Knowing what's going on in ‘EastEnders' can often do more good than being able to read Greek. Mixed in with everything else, there's a lot of real life in the soaps.

I did take time from cleaning and thinking to ring Mrs Bateman, just to ask if she was OK – which she was, but pleased to be telephoned, though she had nothing new to report. I also had several calls myself about this and that, including one from Mark Dover.

‘I have to come down to the village,' he said. ‘Will you have lunch with me at the Ewe Lamb?'

I asked to be excused, said I was rather busy, in the middle of something I had to finish. I didn't tell him it was cleaning the bedrooms.

With part of me I wanted to go – for a start, I'm always ready to break off the housework – but I'm holding back on Mark Dover, partly because recently I find myself thinking about him, and about that side of my life in general. I have been wondering if there are stages in widowhood, and if so am I coming to the end of the first stage? It's not that I don't miss Philip, and no man could ever replace him. He was all I ever wanted in every part of my life, but sometimes now, from time to time when I see a man and a woman together, enjoying each other's presence, I wonder whether I want to spend the rest of my life as a woman on my own. I know I have Becky, but that's not for ever and I must guard against it becoming so. I must eventually let her go.

So at the moment, since I'm not sure where I am, or even where I want to be, I'm holding back even on what might be no more than a very nice, ordinary friendship. But I'm sure enough in the other part of my life. Being a priest is tremendously important to me. It deserves, and will have, everything I can give. How would any man deal with that? Philip did, but Philip was Philip.

That was yesterday. The Vicarage is now as clean and tidy as it's been since I moved in here. How long will that last? Mum and Dad will be here for lunch and I've arranged with Bertha Jowett that we'll be with her at two o'clock. She said that suited her. Like many old people she has lunch early, it's a landmark in the day, and two o'clock will give her time to have a little zizz before the three of us land on her. Becky asked if she could bring Anna home to tea because she wanted her grandparents to meet her new friend, and of course I agreed, so I have to be back for that.

When my parents arrive they are all excited. No, that's not totally true! My mother is as excited as a girl, can't stop talking and would like to set off right now to the cottage, never mind lunch. Dad is resigned.

‘We've still heard nothing from the estate agents in Thurston,' my mother says, ‘though we left home before the post came this morning.'

‘There was nothing in my post,' I say. ‘I suppose what you're looking for is difficult to come by.'

‘Then let's hope it works out with Miss Jowett,' my mother says. ‘It sounds the very thing.'

‘The cottage is quite small,' I remind her. ‘I did tell you.'

‘I know. Small is what we want,' she says.

‘We don't yet know what she's asking for it,' Dad says. ‘It might be beyond us.'

‘She'll be able to give you a figure today – at least I think she will,' I tell him. ‘Though I've heard that houses actually in the village don't come cheap. There are so few of them.'

‘Oh, I'm sure it'll be all right, Ernest!' my mother blithely says.

‘That's what you always say,' Dad complains.

‘And it usually is,' she replies, getting the last word.

At five minutes past two we ring Bertha Jowett's doorbell and wait while she makes her slow progress to the front door. I guess she hasn't left the door on the latch for us to walk in because she thinks my parents should be properly welcomed.

I make the introductions and we're invited to sit down, and she asks if we'd like a cup of tea and we explain we had one after lunch (my parents wouldn't think much of a meal which didn't end with a cup of tea). Then, since no-one seems prepared to start the discussion on what we've come for, we talk about the weather. A very nice day, but a real nip in the air, and the nights are drawing in, aren't they? Time passes so quickly, doesn't it? Before we know where we are it'll be Christmas, and then another New Year! We all nod in agreement with each other though I doubt very much that time passes quickly for Bertha Jowett. The years might but I doubt that the days do. I imagine they crawl.

There's a break, we all fall silent at once, and then Bertha says, ‘Well! I'm sure you'd like to take a look around.'

Slowly, we make our way around the ground floor, Bertha with the aid of her stick. Small kitchen, but adequate. Needs new equipment. The back door leads out on to a flagged area, and then the garden, which is larger than I'd expected.

‘I'm afraid the garden is somewhat neglected,' Bertha apologizes. ‘I can't get to it.'

‘Of course you can't,' my mother agrees. ‘Ernest is very fond of gardening!'

‘Oh! Then you might find this one too small,' Bertha suggests.

‘I don't think so,' my mother answers on behalf of Dad. ‘It's amazing what you can grow in a small space. Especially if you have hanging baskets. Ernest grew lovely little tomatoes in hanging baskets one year!'

There's another room at the back of the house which I suppose the estate agent would describe as the dining room. It would have to have a very small table and chairs, I'm thinking. A dwarves' tea party. ‘Cosy' would be the agent's word.

There's an outside lavatory. ‘Useful if you happen to be gardening,' Mum says helpfully. There's also a shed at the end of the garden. ‘It's full of gardening tools and heaven knows what else,' Bertha says. ‘I'd leave that as it is. You could throw away what you didn't want.'

That's the lot on the ground floor, except for the small hall and the living room, which I notice Bertha refers to as the drawing room. I expect she was brought up in a house with a drawing room.

‘Would you mind if I asked you to go upstairs without me?' she says. ‘It's a bit difficult. Just walk around and look wherever you want to. Open the cupboard doors and so on. Take your time!'

There are two double bedrooms, rather larger than I'd expected them to be; a landing with cupboards, a small bathroom, a lavatory. It's all very pleasant and surprisingly light, which must owe something to the fact that the walls and the paintwork, and most of the furnishings, are white.

That done, we descend the steep, narrow stairs which have an acute turn halfway down – no wonder Bertha finds it difficult to negotiate them – and rejoin Bertha in the living room.

‘It's really nice!' my mother says. ‘It's exactly what we want!'

Dad could kill her. She has left him no room to manoeuvre, no room to haggle over the price.

‘Don't you think so, Ernest?' she persists.

‘In the main!' he says. ‘In the main!' He doesn't want to be at all rude to Bertha, that's not his way, but he prides himself on getting a good deal on anything, whereas my mother would rush straight in and pay up.

‘You haven't yet told us what you're asking for the cottage, Miss Jowett,' he says to Bertha.

She immediately names the price. ‘I had it valued and that's what the estate agent said I should get for it without any difficulty.'

‘I see,' Dad says doubtfully. ‘If you don't mind my saying so, it does seem a bit steep.'

‘I know!' Bertha agrees amiably. ‘That's exactly what I said to the estate agent. “It's what it will fetch,” he said. He said I was probably out of touch with property prices, which of course I am, having lived here for years with no thought of moving.'

‘That's exactly what I keep telling Ernest. Prices have risen!' my mother says, throwing another spanner in the works.

‘You see,' Bertha explains, ‘I have to get as much as I can for this house in order to pay the rest home fees. They're very steep. And who knows how long I might be there? Once one begins to be looked after, and well fed, one does tend to live longer.' She then tells us the story of a woman in the village, aged ninety-eight and in rapidly failing health, whose family found her a place in a private home for what was to be the last few months of her life, and she went on to live until she was a hundred-and-two, at crippling expense to her family. ‘Though I hope I won't do that!' she added. ‘Not that I
have
a family to support me.'

By this time my mother is ready to pay her the asking price plus a bit on top, and Dad can see this.

‘Well, thank you for letting us see your house,' he says quickly. ‘It's really very nice, but now we must go away and think about it.'

‘Of course you must,' Bertha agrees. ‘But I hope you won't think about it too long because if you don't want it I have to consider putting it in the hands of the agent. He says he could sell it quite quickly, which is what I need because – I don't know whether Venus has told you this – I have to say yes or no to the place in the home or I'll lose it. And places there are like gold!'

‘Oh, it won't take us long!' my mother says with cheerful confidence. What she means is that she will sort my father out as soon as we get back to the Vicarage.

Bertha insists on seeing us to the door. ‘Heaven knows,' she says as we take our leave, my mother promising to be in touch very soon, ‘how I'm going to sort everything out – I mean furniture, possessions and suchlike. It's a bit like going to heaven – you can't take it with you!'

‘I'm sure Venus will give you a hand,' my mother says, offering my services willy-nilly. She does still tend to think, when it suits her, that Sunday is the only day I work. But in fact, if I'm around I'd be happy to step in and help.

Back at the Vicarage my father puts up a fight but he has no chance, I suppose partly because I, too, am so keen for them to buy the cottage. Not that I need to say a great deal because my mother has all the answers. She reminds him that the figure for the cottage is in the same bracket as that being asked for their own house, which is likely to sell quickly.

‘So there's nothing to worry about!' she says finally.

Saturday, and the visit to the Dog Rescue Centre goes like a dream. Becky would like her grandparents to go with us but I rule that out. I don't think it's fair to the dog or to anyone else, and I doubt the Centre would allow it. My parents agree.

‘You can tell us all about it when you get back, and after that we'll wait until you bring her home,' my mother says.

We learn a great deal in the class: about a dog's routine – dogs need routine; regular meals, walks, bedtimes, toilet training. It sounds for all the world like having a new baby and I suppose it is. When we take Missie out for her walk she's a darling, so good on the lead, no trouble when we meet with other dogs. She's a friendly little thing also, and this thrills Becky, she answers immediately to her name and she's very affectionate. It almost breaks Becky's heart that we can't take her home with us there and then, but I promise we'll come again next Saturday.

‘A whole week!' Becky wails.

Sunday again. The eight o'clock goes well, as usual. Same people, and I think I know all of them by name now, which is good. I would like to know why they don't go to the ten o'clock with most of the others but it's not something I will ask. If I did I expect there'd be as many different answers as there are people.

When I get home my mother has the breakfast all ready to serve – what luxury! – so I'm back in very good time for the ten o'clock and I do a few odd jobs in the parish office before I go into the porch to greet my congregation. As usual, I'm wondering if Miss Frazer will be amongst them, and if she is, what her attitude will be. Could it be possible that she has decided to give up on me and never darken the doors of St Mary's again? How would I feel about that? Would I feel I'd driven her away? If I have it's not what I've done, it's what I am, and I can't change that.

I suppose about a third of the congregation have arrived when I look down the church path and see people on the pavement at the other side of the lych gate accepting sheets of paper, leaflets I suppose, from a youth. I think nothing of this, leaflets are frequently thrust upon one in all kinds of places and they come regularly through the Vicarage letter box, offering to repaint the house at a bargain price or advertising a new Indian take-away in Brampton, though outside church on a Sunday morning is something I haven't experienced before. People are not stopping to read them. You don't, do you, when you have a leaflet thrust into your hand? You walk on. But as they are walking up the path I see one or two people starting to read them in what looks like a cursory way. And then two people stand still quite suddenly, and look at each other, and call out something I can't hear. Meanwhile the youth is still handing out the leaflets and now, it being almost time for the service to start, there are more people arriving and automatically taking them, and seeing those who are already reading them standing there as if transfixed, they too begin to read. I am mad with curiosity to see what intrigues them so, and since the two women who were the first to start reading theirs are almost at the church door I hold out my hand.