A Blessing In Disguise (45 page)

She can read my mind. ‘I've never liked cooking,' she admits. ‘And shopping's quite difficult. But I manage very well. Except that I can't get around much I'm really quite healthy. Now you young people are always getting colds, but not me! I practically never have a cold!'

‘Good!' I say. My theory is that anyone as old as Bertha Jowett has met with so many germs over a lifetime that they've developed an immunity to most of them. ‘And when it comes to shopping, as I've mentioned before, it's dead easy for me to do that for you. Just pick up the phone and I'll call in while I'm doing my own shopping. And, of course, Mr Winterton would deliver fruit and vegetables any day.'

‘I know.' She sounds bored. I'm sure people of my age are always going on at the elderly to eat more sensibly and I can tell it's time I changed the subject.

‘I came to bring you a bit of good news!' I say – and give it to her.

‘Oh, but that's wonderful!' she says. ‘Are you
sure
?'

‘It seems pretty certain,' I tell her. ‘I spoke with my mother just before I left home. It seems the people who want to buy my parents' house already have the money in hand, so there isn't a long chain. I don't see why it shouldn't go through quite quickly.'

‘That's marvellous!' she says. ‘Do you think I might just possibly be able to move by Christmas? I'm sure I shouldn't say it to you, but I hate Christmas. I don't mean the church bit, though that's not for me, but everything else!'

‘That would be quite quick, I imagine, but it might be possible. I expect it's what everyone involved would like. I know my parents would.'

‘Well I shall live in hope,' she says, ‘and in the meantime I'll make a start at getting ready.' She looks around the crowded room. ‘I don't know what I'm going to do with this lot, and every room in the house is the same. And I won't be able to take much with me. They do let you take a few of your own things, but not many.'

Nor do I see how she's going to cope with it. It's horrendous!

‘Would you like me to ask around, see if I can find anyone who'd come for odd days and give you some help? I can't think of anyone offhand but I'm sure there must be someone in the church.'

‘I'd be grateful,' she says. ‘And of course I'd pay them, though I can't afford a lot. And I'll start doing a bit at a time, perhaps clearing out one drawer a day. Oh dear! I don't look forward to that!'

I know what she means. Drawers, wardrobes, cupboards are full of memories, especially when you're as old as Bertha Jowett. It will be like saying good-bye to bits of her life.

‘Well, let me know if there's anything I can do, I mean apart from finding someone to help you. And I'll keep you in touch with every bit of news from my parents. I should think they'll be over here for the weekend before long.'

Sunday – and we discuss what's to be done about Missie. We're agreed in thinking that we can't leave her alone while we all three go off to church.

‘Though very soon,' I tell Becky, ‘we'll start to leave her in the house for a short time each day. She must be trained to stay on her own. I expect she is already; she just has to get used to this house and to learn that we'll always come back to her.'

‘I would willingly,' Becky says with enthusiasm, ‘stay with her this morning while both of you go to church!'

‘I'm sure you would!' I say, ‘but since there are three of us here today we'll try to work something out.'

In the end it's agreed that Ann will come with me to the eight o'clock while Becky stays with Missie, and then Becky and I will go to the ten o'clock Eucharist, after which I will go to coffee, which Becky flatly refuses to consider.

‘While you do that,' Ann says, ‘Becky and I will take Missie for a walk on the Downs.'

I can see that, for as long as it takes, life is going to be filled with plans for who goes where and when. Becky knows that for some time she won't be allowed to take Missie out for a walk on her own. The Centre was firmly against that. ‘Becky must be accompanied by an adult,' Imogen said, thinking of the dog, but in any case I wouldn't like my ten-year-old to be walking over the Downs with no other company than a small dog.

To my surprise Ethel Leigh turns up at the ten o'clock. ‘I thought I'd like to come,' she says.

‘I'm pleased to see you,' I say. ‘How is Marilyn?'

‘All right,' Mrs Leigh says. ‘Missing her Dad, and Garth is missing his Granddad.'

‘I hope you'll stay for coffee after the service,' I say. ‘I'll get someone to go with you and then I'll join you later.' If Carla Brown comes – and she seems to be making a habit of it – I shall ask her to look after Mrs Leigh. She will know how to put her at her ease. Besides, I've discovered that Carla Brown likes to be given something to do.

Mrs Bateman is here, but there's no sign of Miss Frazer and neither Mrs Bateman nor I mention her. Otherwise, everything seems as normal. One or two empty places. Miss Carson, and her friend Mildred Blamires, are not in their usual pew near the front. Possibly they're away together for the weekend. Afterwards I join Ethel Leigh and Carla – and a few others – for coffee. Ethel Leigh is quiet, a bit timid, and doesn't say much. I can't judge whether this is her usual self; I've only met her in bereavement. The first weeks and months of widowhood are terrible to live through, especially if looking after a partner through a long illness has not only exhausted you, but cut you off from friends. It's also possible that Ethel Leigh had a marriage which concentrated on her husband and didn't include many friends. She had that air about her the first time I met her, and certainly there were very few friends at the funeral. I won't mention it to her now, in front of the others, but I'll have a word with her when I get a chance.

I'm back at the Vicarage just before noon. Becky and Ann have had a lovely walk with Missie. ‘She was ever so good,' Becky says. ‘We met some other dogs and she liked that.' For now she's fast asleep in her bed.

Nigel arrives with the photographs, which we spread out on the table. They're wonderful. ‘Fantastic!' Becky says. We discuss who will have which. Ann chooses one showing Becky, Missie and me. I choose one of Becky and Missie in the garden to send to my parents and a similar one for myself. ‘I'll give one to Anna,' Becky says, ‘and I'll take the rest to school to show them. I think I'll give one to Mrs Fawcett!'

I'm pleased to hear her say that. Eileen Fawcett, as her mentor, helped to see Becky through a tricky time and I'm glad Becky has remembered that.

‘Would you like one?' she asks Nigel.

‘I've taken the liberty of keeping one back for myself,' Nigel confesses. ‘I can print more if you need them.'

‘Which one have you chosen?' Ann asks.

‘Becky and Venus, with Missie,' he says.

We look at the photographs all over again, and then I say, ‘I really must get on with the lunch!' and ask Nigel if he'd like to join us. He's been so kind.

‘Thank you, I would,' he says. ‘But I can't. I have two hospital visits to make and I should do them right away, before families start visiting.'

When I see him to the door there's an envelope lying on the mat. I hadn't heard the letter box, which I usually do, I suppose because we were all cooing over the photographs. I pick it up and, when Nigel has left, I take it into the kitchen. My name and address are handwritten, nice, neat writing which of course I don't recognize. I am alone in the kitchen when I open it.

‘Dear Mrs Stanton,' it says.

It occurs to me that ‘Mrs Stanton' is a name by which no-one in Thurston has so far called me. It's been ‘Vicar', or ‘Venus'. I read on.

We are sorry to be writing this letter, but we have thought about it and discussed it between us and we have decided there is only one decision we can come to. We are therefore writing to tell you that, although we have both worshipped in St Mary's Church for many years, we can no longer do so. This is not against you personally, though we believe you to be misguided and indeed deeply wrong, but is because we cannot accept any woman as our Vicar and Parish Priest. It is against all we hold sacred, all we have ever been taught, and indeed against the will of God. We do, in fact, agree in principle with what Miss Frazer has publicly said, as, we think, you will find many others also do, though we would not have expressed our beliefs in the same manner. We are letting you know, therefore, that from today we shall attend St Saviour's Church in Brampton. We shall miss St Mary's and our friends there very much indeed.

Yours sincerely,

Emily Carson

Mildred Blamires

There are four chairs at my kitchen table. I sit down, almost drop down, on the nearest. I have to because my legs feel like cotton wool and I'm trembling from head to foot. The letter I'm still holding is shaking in my hand. I start to read it again from the beginning, though actually I don't need to. It's all there, as if it's been photographed on my brain. Certain words stand out . . . ‘deeply wrong', ‘cannot accept', ‘against all we hold sacred', ‘many others also do'.

The fact that, though it pulls no punches, it has no appearance of having been dashed off in a temper but, rather, having been written after careful thought and deliberation, and with a degree of politeness, somehow makes it seem worse. There is nothing of Miss Frazer's frenzy in this, no personal vilification, no threats. No way can I dismiss it as the ranting and raving of two extreme women. Indeed, reading between the lines I can imagine it's been written with some degree of reluctance.

Ann bursts into the kitchen, bright and breezy, full of life.

‘I'm sorry, Venus!' she says. ‘We've been putting Missie through her paces. I can see she's going to be a real time consumer! Now, what can I do to help?'

And then she looks at me. ‘Venus, what is it? What's wrong?' she asks.

Without speaking, I hand her the letter. As she starts to read it she also sits down. When she's finished, she looks up. ‘Oh, Venus! Oh, my love!' She sounds truly distressed.

And then I find my voice. I had hoped it would be a calm voice, I don't want to go over the top, but it isn't. I'm aware of a slight feeling of panic, which isn't like me. I rush my words.

‘It had to happen, didn't it? Why was I so foolish as to think that Miss Frazer would be the end of it? Of course she couldn't be! So what next?'

And have these two women done this independently, I ask myself, or has Miss Frazer got at them? And how many others have they discussed it with? Right now I feel there's a conspiracy going on around me. Oh, that's irrational, I know! And I realize I'm tipping over into self-pity, which I hate and it's not like me, but for the moment I can't control it.

‘How many others have they discussed it with?' I go on. ‘And who are they? How will I know?'

‘If any,' Ann says reasonably. But I'm not sure that I'm open to reason.

She stretches across the table and puts her hand on mine.

‘Calm down, Venus! This isn't like you. You were always the fighter, that's one of the things Philip loved about you.'

‘I'm sorry,' I say, quietly now. ‘I'm being stupid, aren't I? But it was so unexpected.'

‘I know,' Ann says. ‘I'm sorry. Perhaps the best thing is to consider what you'll do, if anything.'

I agree. ‘I can't simply do nothing,' I say. ‘For one thing, I must reply to the letter. And certainly I must tell Henry Nugent. He has a right to know.' I glance up at the clock on the wall. ‘But I won't do it this minute. Molly will be ready to dish up lunch.'

‘And perhaps lunch is what we should get on with,' Ann says.

‘Oh Ann, I don't feel like eating!' I protest.

‘I daresay you don't, but Becky will,' Ann says. ‘And in fact so do I. It smells delicious!' It's true. There's a shoulder of lamb roasting in the oven. ‘And you mustn't let Becky see you eating nothing, she'll wonder why. Anyway, you'll feel better after you've eaten. One usually does. So now let's get down to it. Tell me what I can do to help!'

I take a deep breath and pull myself together, and make a swift, silent prayer straight to God. ‘Sorry to pester you, Lord, but HELP!'

‘You're right,' I say to Ann. ‘I concede! So if I see to the vegetables, deal with the meat and make the gravy, would you lay the table? And open a bottle of wine. And naturally, not a word about the letter when Becky's around. I'd rather she knew nothing about it. She's already had a bad time because of my job. I don't want any more of that for her.'

‘That won't be difficult,' Ann says. ‘All Becky can think about is Missie!'

‘Then let's keep it that way,' I suggest. ‘In fact, I think I'll give Henry a quick call now, ask him if he can come here this afternoon. I'll do it from my bedroom in case Becky should come in. And perhaps, if you're not in a rush to leave, you and Becky could take Missie out for another walk while Henry's here?'

‘No trouble!' Ann says. ‘Do you want me to lay the table in the dining room, or shall we have lunch in the kitchen today?'

‘Why not the kitchen?' I say. Normally when I have a visitor we would eat in the dining room, which is particularly pleasant because it overlooks the garden, but at the moment – ridiculous, I know – I favour the warm familiarity of my kitchen. Besides which, I remind myself, Missie has her bed in the kitchen and it will please Becky not to be parted from her.

Ann sets about her chores, I make the brief phone call to Henry and then return to the kitchen and get on with the rest of the cooking.

‘You see,' I say – I've got over a bad moment but I'm unable to keep off the subject – ‘I don't know, do I, that they haven't already written to Henry. I didn't ask him, it was a very quick call. It would be natural for them to do so. He's churchwarden and they've almost certainly known him a long time. Or, for that matter,
have
they told a load of other people what they intended to do? Why would they go off not saying anything to their friends? I did notice they weren't in church this morning. No-one said anything about that at coffee, but then I didn't get around much because I knew Nigel was coming to the Vicarage with the photographs.'