A Blessing In Disguise (49 page)

‘And the dog!' Evelyn breaks in. ‘That's a great success, I hear. Well I'm glad all's as well with Becky as it seems to be to us.'

She doesn't linger on the phone, she's a busy lady. She says we must get together again soon, then rings off.

Now for Mark Dover. I can guess what he wants me for. Two weeks from now it's the exhibition in London and he'll want to make arrangements. I'm in two minds about whether I want to go. Of course I want to see the portrait hung – who wouldn't – but I wish I was going with the others – and Mark of course – instead of to the private view on the previous evening. Which reminds me that I shall have to make arrangements for Becky.

So much has happened since the morning I took Ethel Leigh to meet Bertha Jowett. Everything suddenly started moving, as though someone had turned on several switches at the same time. There was Mark Dover, reminding me about the London preview. We will travel up by car, he said, and afterwards he will take me out to dinner, so we will be back late. Becky and Missie are both to stay with the Brents. Heavenly bliss for Becky! A sleepover with Anna,
plus
Missie. What bliss!

And then, that same evening, following my conversation with Mark, a couple arrived at the Vicarage to make wedding arrangements. You will not believe this next bit but I assure you it's true. The conversation went like this:

Bride-to-be: ‘About bridesmaids . . .'

Moi: ‘Yes. How many are you thinking of?'

Bride-to-be: ‘Three, actually. My sister, my best friend, and my dog.'

Moi: ‘Sorry, I didn't quite catch that. For one moment – ha ha! – I thought you said “my dog”!'

Bride-to-be: ‘I did, Vicar. She'll be the sweetest bridesmaid! She's an apricot poodle. Oh, don't worry, she's a very good little dog, well-mannered. She won't do anything she shouldn't. She's very well trained! She wouldn't even bark. I'd just adore to have her there and I think she'd really add something to the wedding!'

‘She certainly would!' I agreed. Otherwise I was temporarily lost for words.

‘In fact my colour scheme will be white and apricot,' the bride-to-be said, ‘but that's not why I want to include Trixie. Do you have a dog, Vicar?'

‘As a matter of fact, I do,' I told her. ‘A small spaniel.'

‘Ah,' she said quickly, ‘then you'll understand!'

I didn't. I still don't. ‘I'm not sure . . .' I began.

‘There aren't any rules about bridesmaids, are there?' she interrupted. ‘I mean about how many? Because if so . . .'

I could tell she would without a second thought ditch her sister or her best friend in favour of Trixie.

‘Not about how many,' I said cautiously. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, nor are there any rules about whether bridesmaids should be human or canine. It never came up in my training and I doubt if it often comes up in what we refer to as real life. And I'm sure there's no rule about bringing a dog into church because I've known people who did. ‘It's just, well, rather unusual at a wedding,' I said.

‘I know!' she agreed happily. ‘I think people will like it!'

The groom said nothing, just smiled at her fondly. She will be able to twist him around her little finger, get whatever she wants.

‘Do you think perhaps if your mother brought Trixie in on the lead, if she stayed with her for the ceremony . . . ?'

She pouted, rather prettily. ‘I had rather hoped . . .' she said.

‘Let's leave it for the moment, think it over!' I said, taking the coward's way out. ‘Right now we've got other things to settle.' Why didn't I just say, ‘No way, José!'? I don't know. If it had been a horse there'd have been no difficulty.

On the following Sunday we had the Wintertons' baptism, new style, at the Eucharist. It went well, and certainly, the family told me afterwards, they were very pleased. They felt supported by the involvement of the congregation, and without a doubt the congregation were interested. There's something special about welcoming a new member in baptism, and it certainly struck a chord when the baby cried like mad as the water was poured over her head. There were several sympathetic ‘oohs' and ‘aahs' from the ladies. Conversely, Mr and Mrs Mortimer didn't fancy a similar baptism for their child. It seemed too public for them, so I was happy to baptize baby Joseph on the following Sunday afternoon in the presence of only family members. I won't push people into something they don't want.

Miss Carson and Mrs Blamires have been conspicuous by their absence, though nothing has been said directly to me, except by Carla Brown, who said, ‘Silly twits!' I think everyone else was being tactful. Then last Sunday the twin sisters, Joyce and Alice Dean, were missing. I asked about them at coffee. ‘Are they ill?' I enquired.

There was a rather embarrassed silence from the people around the table, then a brave soul said, ‘I'm afraid they've followed Miss Carson and Mrs Blamires to St Saviour's, Venus. But don't worry!'

I'm not exactly worried, but it would be untrue to say I don't care. Of course I do.

‘On the other hand,' Trudy Santer said, ‘Mrs Marshall has come back. She's been here the last two Sundays.'

‘Mrs Marshall?' I still don't know everyone in the congregation and in any case not everyone comes every Sunday.

‘She left a while ago. She didn't get on with the previous Vicar,' Trudy said. ‘Nothing serious that I know of. I reckon he was a bit sharp with her, probably with good cause, but she wouldn't like that.'

‘Par for the course with the clergy,' I said. ‘One mustn't ever disagree, or criticize. It's not the thing.'

‘Anyway, I reckon she's giving you a trial period,' Trudy said.

Ethel Leigh is now helping at the Vicarage from nine o'clock to twelve noon every Friday. I can't afford it, but it's heaven. If there are economies to be made I already know it won't be in this direction. I would fast from food and drink for a day a week rather than part with Ethel, now that I've experienced the magic wrought in the house during those three hours. Not content with cleaning the rooms and polishing every surface until I can see my reflection in it, she gathers up all the bits of ironing she can lay hands on, and deals with them.

She tells me she's getting on all right with Bertha Jowett, though ‘We're making progress' is about the limit of her description because she isn't a gossip, but the tone of her voice tells me there's a great deal more progress still to be made.

Mum phones me almost daily, itemizing what she's dealt with. The best glass and china has been washed and packed into the tea chests the removal people have obligingly let her have in advance; the bookshelves have been sorted through and several volumes given towards Holy Trinity's next jumble sale – about which Dad is not madly happy since he hates parting with books, even the ones he's read and is unlikely ever to read again.

Occasionally he takes over the phone from Mum. ‘Your mother's in her element,' he told me. ‘Packing everything she can lay hands on. We'll be lucky if we have a plate to eat our dinner from or sheets to sleep in for at least a week before we move!' All the same, I think he's as happy as she is.

And then, ten days ago, Richard Proctor stunned us all, or at least everyone in St Mary's, by the announcement of his engagement to a woman he's met in the course of his work. No-one suspected a thing, not even the Blessed Henry (so the latter told me). The feeling is that the fiancée, who lives in Kingston-on-Thames, has never so much as set foot in Thurston, at least not with Richard, or someone would have seen them.

The day after that news broke Nigel called in the afternoon with a CD he'd promised to lend me – Schubert, whom I like very much. Schubert knows how to write a good tune.

‘Have you heard about Richard Proctor?' I asked him.

He had. I wasn't surprised. That's Thurston for you.

‘They're to be married in Kingston,' I informed him. ‘So at least Richard will be spared the embarrassment of deciding whether he could go through a wedding taken by a woman priest – though I don't think he has any personal animosity towards me. Indeed, I hear I'm to be invited to the wedding!'

‘Good for you!' Nigel said.

‘Should he move away from Thurston to live,' I continued, ‘then I'll have to have a new churchwarden. So I'm looking around.' In fact I'm asking myself, ‘What about a woman?' – though I'm not asking it out loud. I doubt St Mary's has ever had a woman churchwarden.

At that point Becky came in from school, to the usual ecstatic welcome from Missie. She and I have fallen into the pattern of taking Missie for a walk straight after school every day, not stopping to have tea because it gets dark so early.

‘Are you ready?' she asked me the minute she came through the door.

I explained to Nigel why I'd have to shoo him out and he said, ‘Why don't I come with you? I've finished my visits and it's my evening off from surgery.'

He and Becky talked twenty to the dozen as we walked over the Downs. ‘I'm staying two nights with Anna next week,' she informed him. ‘Anna's my best friend.'

‘I know!' Nigel said.

‘Mum's going to London twice. She won't be home till late.'

‘I know that too,' Nigel said. ‘I'm going with her.'

Becky turned to me, surprised. ‘I thought you were going with Mark Dover.'

‘One day with him, the next day with me, and some other friends,' Nigel said.

‘Why?' Becky asked. ‘Why don't you all go together?'

‘That's precisely what I've asked your mother!' Nigel said.

I chipped in. ‘Nigel, you know perfectly well why I'm going twice!'

‘I don't like Mark Dover,' Becky said. ‘I don't think he likes children!'

‘That's rude,' I told her. ‘And also, you should say “Mr Dover”.'

Nigel winked at her.

‘Am I supposed to call you Mister?' she asked him.

‘Definitely not!' he said. ‘
We're
friends!'

Ten days ago I did the trip to London with Mark. I wore the same outfit I had bought for that first dinner party. I loved it. It didn't matter that Mark had seen it before; I wasn't out to impress him. He picked me up in the afternoon, shortly after I'd delivered Becky, Missie, and a couple of teddy bears to the Brents'. Becky didn't give me so much as a backward glance when I left and I suppose I should be happy about that.

‘She'll be fine,' Sally Brent said. ‘We'll look after her!'

I was sure they would but, perversely, I would have liked Becky to show the teeniest bit of emotion on leaving me, even a tenth of what I felt about parting with her, though probably mine was compounded with guilt.

Mark drove fast and furiously up the motorway, undoubtedly breaking the speed limit until, reaching London, the traffic slowed him down.

‘I know people aren't due to arrive until around seven,' he said, ‘but I want to make quite certain that everything's in order before they do.'

It was about all he did say on the journey, which surprised me. I'd expected him to be his usual chatty self, totally in command of everything, but I sensed he was nervous. Thinking about it, I supposed that was reasonable. He was offering his work, openly displaying it, for all to see, to approve or criticize – or even show no reaction at all, which might be worse – without any explanations, any declaring of intent. It had to speak for itself, there was nothing more he could do, and I wondered if his usual brimming-over self-confidence had temporarily deserted him. At the beginning of the journey I chatted, until I realized that my place was to keep quiet – which I did.

The gallery was in one of the streets off Piccadilly, that area which seems to be awash with works of art. It appeared unprepossessing from the outside, with a small window in which one of his paintings, on an easel, was the sole display, but inside it was unexpectedly spacious with paintings and small sculptures not only on the ground floor but in galleries on two floors above. Mark had the whole of the gallery on the first floor, which, he said, was quite the best position.

The gallery owner, Paul Threlfall, a dapper little man with receding hair and a ready smile, came forward and greeted us with a quiet enthusiasm – it wasn't, I thought, a place where one would ever speak in loud tones – and Mark introduced me.

‘Ah,' Mr Threlfall said, ‘the lady of the portrait! I hope you like it. We think it's rather special!' Then he turned to Mark. ‘Everything's in order,' he said. ‘I think you'll be pleased with the hanging. We've had quite a bit of interest. I've given out a few invitations, apart from your own list, to clients I thought would be useful.'

‘That's fine!' Mark said. ‘Are the caterers here?'

‘They are,' Mr Threlfall assured him. ‘They're very competent.'

We followed him up the stairs to the first floor.

The first thing I saw – and I would have even if I hadn't been looking for it – was my portrait. It was in the centre of the long wall, immediately opposite the door by which we entered, the perfect place. Mark had told me it would have the place of honour but I don't think I'd ever believed him. Here, hung where it was, it glowed with life and colour. The three of us stood together, just inside the room, looking at it.

‘It's great, isn't it?' Mr Threlfall said. ‘I hope you like it.'

‘It's lovely!' I said. ‘It really is!'

Mark said nothing, but he looked pleased, and a little more relaxed, though I knew it wasn't just my approval he wanted, but that of the real critics who would see it later.

‘I do think it's the best thing you've done,' Mr Threlfall said. ‘And now I'll leave you to it. I expect you'll want to look around. Let me know if anything doesn't suit you, though I'm sure it will.'