A Blessing In Disguise (48 page)

‘That's wonderful!' I say. ‘Do you reckon I can tell Miss Jowett that?'

‘Well, you can tell her exactly what I've told you,' Mum says. ‘In any case she'll need to start getting things together, won't she? Not to mention getting rid of things, poor lady. That's the hardest part – and I'll have a bit of that myself. There's no way we can take everything from this house to the cottage, is there?'

That's for sure. My mother is a hoarder!

‘What bothers me,' she continues, ‘is that there'll be no time for me to clean through the cottage, or I shouldn't think there will be, before your Dad and I move in. And from what I've seen I'm sure it needs it. Still, never mind! We'll have to do it when we're in there, won't we.'

‘I'll be able to give you a hand,' I say. ‘And I think I've found someone to help Miss Jowett to pack up and so on. If she agrees, and I expect she will.'

‘Oh, good!' Mum says. ‘And I think you'd better pop in at the estate agents and tell them we've been suited.'

‘I'll do that,' I promise. ‘Sorry, Mum, I'll have to ring off now. I'm taking Missie down to the school to meet Becky and then we're going for a walk.'

‘That's nice,' she says. ‘I'll be able to do that sometimes, once we're living in Thurston.'

Missie is fussed over like mad at the school gate, and she enjoys every minute of it. She's a very sociable dog. Becky, of course, is in seventh heaven. It seems as though the ownership of Missie – because Becky does see Missie as
her
dog – has raised her status sky high. Together with Anna, we have a lovely walk over the Downs and we can let Missie off the lead there because she's very good at coming back the minute she's called. We come off the Downs by another route and we walk down the High Street to the estate agents. By now, dusk is falling, so we drop Anna at her house and return home. No chance at all of going to see Bertha Jowett. That will have to wait until tomorrow.

What I
do
do is write the reply to Miss Carson's and Mrs Blamires's letter, much as I've drafted it. I'm polite, as indeed I'm sure they tried to be in theirs. ‘I shall miss you both,' I write, ‘as will all your friends at St Mary's. I wish you well at St Saviour's. I hope you will be happy there.' Then when I sign off I write, ‘God bless you both!' Perhaps they'll accept a blessing from me, even though I'm not a proper priest!

‘I want to put this letter in the post,' I tell Becky. ‘If I walk down to the post office there's a late collection there. Will you be all right?' (It's now dark.)

‘Oh Mum!' she protests. ‘Of
course
I will! I'm not a small child! Besides, I've got Missie!'

I'm not convinced that Missie wouldn't give a warm welcome to whoever decided to come into the house, nevertheless I go to the post. It's with a heavy heart that I hear the envelope plop into the letter box. I'm praying that it will be the first and last of its kind.

On Tuesday morning I leave Missie alone for the first time while I go to celebrate the Eucharist. Then, when it's over, I nip back to the Vicarage where she greets me as effusively as if I've been gone for a week. I take her into the garden. ‘Do a nice pee-pee, then!' I say, and she duly obliges. ‘And now I'm going to leave you again, but only for an hour. I have to go to see Miss Jowett!' I expect people who live alone, with only an animal to converse with (though ‘converse' is the wrong word, Missie has said nothing), talk like this all the time. Then on the way to Bertha Jowett's I call in at Gander's to buy a couple of jam doughnuts. Bertha seems really pleased to see me.

‘Well, any news?' she asks as we sit down.

‘A little,' I say. ‘I phoned my mother yesterday. It's all going ahead and they're very set on moving by Christmas. The solicitor says it just might be possible, providing there are no snags. Would that suit you?'

‘Down to the ground!' Bertha Jowett says. ‘I really would like to be in the Beeches by then. Christmas would be a good time to start there, don't you think?'

‘I'd imagine so,' I agree. ‘They probably get up to all sorts of things. And there'll be special meals and so on, won't there? I expect you'll get a slap-up Christmas dinner!'

‘Rather nice!' Bertha says. ‘I haven't had one of those for some time. Who wants to cook a turkey for one? Would you like a cup of coffee?'

‘I would,' I say. ‘Especially as I've brought some doughnuts. Shall I make it?'

When we're drinking our coffee and eating our doughnuts – deliciously light and very jammy – Bertha says, ‘It's so good of you to come to see me, to take all this trouble!'

‘It isn't any trouble,' I assure her. ‘Anyway, this morning you could say I came on my mother's behalf.'

She nods. ‘Partly, I suppose, but the first time you came here it wasn't for any reason. You just came to see me. I can't think why except that Jean probably dragged you here.'

‘She brought me. I didn't have to be dragged,' I say. ‘After all, I
am
the Vicar. So apart from wanting to meet you – and I don't get all that many chances to meet a dyed-in-the-wool atheist – I am in a way responsible for you. I have the cure of all the souls in this parish. That's my responsibility.'

At that, Bertha sits up straight.

‘Well, young woman,' she says. It's the way she says ‘young woman' with all the authority of a head of college putting down a first-year student who has shown herself too big for her boots – ‘Well, young woman, you certainly have no responsibility for me!' she says with extreme firmness. ‘No-one has responsibility for me! I am responsible for myself! Always have been. Beholden to no-one, that's me!'

I always find that a slightly sad phrase. It's one I hear, too often, when I do a bereavement visit before a funeral. ‘What was he like, your Dad?' I will ask, trying to get a picture from the sorrowing, middle-aged daughter. ‘Oh,' she'll say, ‘he was a very upright man. Independent. Looked after himself when Mum died. Didn't ask for help. He was a proud man, he was beholden to no-one!' There's also always pride in the daughter's voice when she uses that phrase, but I feel sadness. There's no warmth, nothing there either for the won't-be taker or the would-be giver. And right now, as Bertha Jowett uses the words, undoubtedly with pride, I feel she's shutting herself away, closing doors.

‘Now I don't wish to be rude,' she says, ‘you've been kind to me, but I am
not
one of your lot! I am not a soul you need to save! I thought I'd made that quite clear on your first visit.'

‘Oh, you did! You did!' I answer. ‘Crystal clear! And I promise you I haven't any plans to convert you. I won't come the heavy hand . . .'

‘It wouldn't work if you did!' she interrupts.

‘But I'm not just here to look after the Christians. Long before I came here some of my most interesting friends – I hope I can call you a friend? –'

‘I had hoped so!' she says.

‘ – were atheists. We're both positive, you see. I know by faith, you know by conviction. We're both sure we're right. You must admit that's interesting? But in the space between us there's a great army of “don't knows”.'

‘Then you'd be better off concentrating on them,' Bertha says.

I contradict her. ‘Oh, not necessarily! You stimulate me. You sharpen me up. I can't get complacent with you around. Besides, you would never bore me!'

‘Well, thank you,' she says, a bit grudgingly, as if she's not sure she believes me. ‘Just so long as we both know where we stand!'

‘Of course! And sometimes,' I say, ‘the atheists are nicer than the churchgoing Christians, but swear you'll never tell anyone I said that!'

‘I won't,' she promises. ‘And don't you think I don't know it. Don't forget I grew up with churchy folks!'

There's a pause, then she says, ‘Oh dear! I do truly want to move out, I've got my mind around to it, but I just don't know how I'm going to deal with all this!' She waves a hand around the untidy, crowded room.

Being really wicked, I say, ‘I'll pray for you!'

She is up in arms at once. ‘Don't you dare! I forbid it! If there's one thing I can't stand it's being prayed for!'

‘Too late, Bertha!' I answer. ‘I've already done it. What's more, I reckon I've got the answer!'

‘I don't believe you,' she says, giving me a dirty look.

‘Then listen to this,' I say.

I tell her all about Mrs Leigh, about her circumstances, about the fact that she wants a part-time job. ‘She feels a bit lost without her husband to look after,' I say.

‘That's exactly what comes of depending on other people,' Bertha says with very little sympathy, ‘you don't know how to be yourself.' Nevertheless she is interested in the prospect of Mrs Leigh's help and I promise to bring Ethel to see her.

‘What about tomorrow morning?' I suggest. ‘I'd say you can't start too soon.'

She gives a deep sigh. ‘Very well,' she says. ‘I suppose you're right. I just hope she's not a do-gooder!'

‘Not in the least,' I assure her. ‘More in need, at the moment, of having something good done to her.'

Striking while the iron is hot, when I get back home I phone Ethel Leigh.

‘Miss Jowett thinks it could work well,' I tell her. ‘Would you be free to see her tomorrow morning? I'd go with you if you like.'

‘Oh, I would like,' she says. ‘You'd know what to say.' She's clearly nervous at the prospect. I hope Bertha doesn't frighten her to death.

‘I haven't discussed hours or rate of pay, anything like that,' I say. ‘That's up to the two of you, but I think Miss Jowett will be fair.'

So we arrange to meet at ten-thirty at the lych gate.

When I put the phone down I wonder again whether I can afford to have Ethel Leigh to help me, and in the end I reckon I could afford a couple of hours a week. The going rate for housework in Thurston, so I've been told, is five pounds fifty an hour. I reckon I could manage that if I cut back on something else, which I'd be willing to do. I would get her to do the jobs I hate most – clearing the rubbish, washing the kitchen floor – and what bliss to have someone else make the beds, if only once a week! So I shall ask her about that when I see her tomorrow.

There is a bench on either side in the lych gate and when I get there Ethel Leigh is already sitting there, waiting for me. We set off at once.

‘I'm quite nervous,' she says as we walk along. ‘I haven't had a job, let alone an interview, since I was married. My husband wouldn't have it.'

‘And what did you do before then?' I enquire.

‘I worked in the Co-op,' she says.

‘Oh, you should be all right!' I say brightly. ‘And remember, Miss Jowett needs you as much as, or perhaps more than, you need her. You might find her a bit sharp spoken at first, but it's only her manner. She's all right, really.'

Bertha Jowett is agreeably polite to Ethel. I recognize it as the one-must-always-be-polite-to-one's-servants variety of politeness, which was no doubt instilled in Bertha when she was a child and has remained, though it's probably many years since she had even a maid-of-all-work. Ethel, however, does not recognize this particular brand of politeness as being different from any other, so all is well. And to be fair to Bertha, she is not being condescending, she isn't a snob. She is doing what comes naturally.

‘Well, Mrs Leigh,' she says, ‘it will be very much a case of sorting things out. A few things, though not many, I'll be able to take with me, some will undoubtedly have to be thrown away or given to a jumble sale, and some, I'm sure, can be sold. I might get a good price for a few nice pieces.'

‘I couldn't do that bit!' Ethel says nervously. ‘I mean I couldn't sell things. I've never done that – except at the Co-op!'

Bertha, who doesn't know of Ethel's previous work experience, looks a bit fazed by this. ‘I don't think the Co-op . . .' she begins, but I jump in and rescue both of them.

‘You must have a valuer for some of your nice things,' I say. ‘Perhaps they should go to auction? If there isn't a good one in Thurston then I'm sure there will be in Brampton.'

‘You're quite right,' Bertha says. ‘That's what I shall do. But they'll need cleaning up, the furniture polishing and so on.'

‘Oh, I can do that, Miss Jowett!' Ethel says with her first show of confidence.

‘Good!' Bertha replies.

‘I must go,' I say. ‘I'll leave you both to it, making your arrangements, I mean. By the way, I think there's someone at St Mary's who has a large attic where she stores things for the jumble sales. Shall I find out for you?'

‘Please do,' Bertha says. ‘I can probably fill it!'

Ethel looks somewhat apprehensive as I take my leave, as if she's nervous about being left alone with Bertha Jowett. Well, she'll have to get over that, won't she?

When I get home there are two messages on my answerphone, one from Evelyn Sharp, the other from Mark Dover. Fortunately Evelyn says, ‘Now don't panic, Venus! Nothing dire has happened to Becky – in fact she looked the picture of health when I saw her in assembly. Just phone me when you have a minute.' Mark says, ‘Sorry not to catch you in. Give me a ring.'

I choose to call Evelyn first.

‘I just wanted to say how pleased we are with Becky,' she says. ‘She seems to have settled down really happily now. Is that your impression or is there anything you're still anxious about?'

‘Nothing at all!' I say. ‘She's a changed girl. And I can't thank you enough for what you've done, I mean all of you in school. She's so happy. There's Anna—'