A Blessing In Disguise (53 page)

‘Four hundred pounds is four hundred pounds,' George said. There speaks a treasurer!

By coincidence, I was in the village that afternoon, buying fruit in Mr Winterton's – I asked about what I always call
my
baby and was told that she was doing exceptionally well, already teething. ‘When my Becky was a baby,' I told Mr Winterton, ‘every child in the neighbourhood cut their teeth before she did. I thought she was going to grow up a toothless wonder!' And then in the middle of this fascinating conversation little Mrs Bateman came into the shop. I hadn't seen her for two or three Sundays; sometimes she comes to church and sometimes she doesn't, and when she doesn't I reckon she's probably at St Saviour's. So when I do see her I don't mention her absences because I don't want to embarrass her. While I was still talking to Mr Winterton, though not still about teeth, she bought a small head of lettuce and two tomatoes – and somehow we found ourselves leaving the shop together. Good manners demanded that we stood together on the pavement for a minute or two's chat.

‘How are you?' I enquired.

‘I'm very well,' she said, ‘but I'm worried about Miss Frazer . . .' She broke off – she must have noticed my unreceptive face – then she continued. ‘I really am worried,' she repeated. ‘She has a nasty cough and she's lost such a lot of weight. I've told her she should see Doctor Baines but she won't!' (Miss Frazer must be in an awful dilemma about the doctors in Thurston; one a woman and the other a Catholic.)

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' I said – which was true, I don't take any pleasure in even the Miss Frazers of this world being ill. ‘I doubt there's anything I can do for her, though. I'm sure she wouldn't like me to put her on our prayer list for the sick!'

Mrs Bateman agreed that that wouldn't be a good idea, sighed heavily and went on her way. Poor little Mrs Bateman! And why had I suddenly wanted to say to her, ‘By the way, I'm going to be married!' I suppose because I want everyone to know. Anyway, I resisted it.

Then three days later the Bishop himself phoned me.

‘I hear you want to come and see me, my dear,' he said. ‘I hope everything's all right?'

‘More than all right, Bishop!' I said. ‘The fact is' – I rushed the words – ‘that I want to be married!'

‘Well now, isn't that splendid!' he said. ‘So yes, you must come and see me, tell me all about it. And who is the lucky man? Do I know him?'

‘I don't think so,' I said. ‘He's the doctor here – well he's one of them. The thing is . . .' I hesitated, and he noticed it.

‘What is the thing?' he asked.

‘He's not of our church,' I told him. ‘In fact, he's a Roman Catholic. He goes to St Patrick's. His name is Nigel Baines. He's a very nice man!'

‘I'm sure he is, or you wouldn't be wanting to marry him, would you?' he said. ‘And I expect you'd like to see me as soon as possible, so what about the day after tomorrow? Let's say eleven o'clock. Would that suit?'

‘Oh yes! Thank you!' I said. ‘Shall I bring Nigel with me?'

‘Not this time,' he said. ‘Come on your own this time.'

I didn't know whether that was a good sign or a bad one, but I was pleased I wasn't going to have to wait too long.

The first thing I did was to ring Nigel. I knew it was surgery time and I shouldn't do so, and indeed the receptionist said, ‘Is it an emergency? He has a patient with him at the moment, so I can't put you through unless it is.' I had to admit that it wasn't. Very important in my eyes, but not top ranking in the larger life of Thurston – none of which I said.

In spite of the fact that the Bishop had been so pleasant on the telephone, and had also been kindness itself over the Frazer affair, driving to the Palace two days later I was a bundle of nerves. What if . . . ? I kept asking myself. What if he says ‘No'? What if he says I haven't been in my post long enough – if he says I have to wait a year, or even longer? What if . . . ? In the end I told myself to stop it, to pull myself together. Looking at my watch – yet again – I realized I was too early, so instead of going straight to the Palace I parked close to the cathedral, and went in. It was quiet, dimly lit, just a few people wandering around and two middle-aged women manning the bookstall, without a customer in sight. I found a quiet corner and knelt down. I don't know what I said in my prayers, I'm not sure I said anything but then one doesn't have to. After a few minutes I left, got back into my car and drove the short distance to the Palace.

‘The Bishop is on the telephone,' his secretary said. ‘He won't keep you waiting more than a few minutes.' He gave me the latest copy of the cathedral quarterly magazine to look at and I turned the pages without taking in a single word. Less than five minutes went by before I was shown into the Bishop's room. He rose to his feet and held out his hand.

‘Now sit down, my dear, and tell me all about it, all about this man you want to marry!'

So I did.

‘Well, he sounds a very nice man,' the Bishop said. ‘Did you know him before you came to Thurston?'

‘No,' I admitted. ‘But very soon after. I met his partner in the practice on my first Sunday at St Mary's, and then Nigel very soon afterwards.'

‘So you've known him a little less than three months?' he said. ‘It's not long, is it?'

I had to admit that. ‘But we've seen each other often and I am quite sure of my feelings – and so is he, as he would tell you if he was here.'

‘That's not impossible,' he said. ‘I fell in love with my wife at first sight, and she tells me it was mutual. Of course we had to wait to get married, I was a very young curate then! She was in the choir.'

Greatly daring, I said, ‘But it worked. For you, I mean.'

‘Oh yes!' he said. ‘And I'm pleased to say it's still working. We shall be celebrating our fortieth anniversary in January. But you would also have disadvantages we didn't have. We were of the same church whereas you and your doctor would not be able to worship together, except on certain occasions, and not at the Eucharist. That will be sad, though I'm sure you've both thought about it.'

‘We have!' I said. ‘We've discussed it more than once. We both think it's nonsense that our churches are divided, but we would live with it.'

‘Yes, it is nonsense,' the Bishop agreed, ‘but it's much more than that, it's a sin against God. That's why I am never, other things being equal, against an Anglican marrying with a Roman Catholic. It's a beginning of unity, and from small beginnings . . .' He broke off and I rushed in!

‘Does that mean . . . ? Are you saying I can marry Nigel?' I could hardly believe it.

‘Oh yes!' he said. ‘But you have to realize, and you're a sensible woman so I'm sure you will, you will have more difficulties than if you were two lay people. You are a priest, now and for always. Never forget that.'

‘I wouldn't!' I said. ‘Not ever!'

‘But,' he said, ‘you must wait a little longer. Three months will not do – I would say that whatever the circumstances.'

‘How long . . . ?'

‘I can't say at this moment,' he said. ‘I would like to meet Nigel, I must meet him. You must wait at least six months, perhaps longer, I don't yet know. It will be my duty to keep watch over you, you are in my pastoral care and I have your welfare at heart. I hope you believe that. But the time will soon pass. You might not think so now, but it will!'

‘And,' I took a deep breath, ‘can we be engaged?' I asked. ‘Can we tell people that we hope to marry?'

‘Of course you can, my dear!' the Bishop said. ‘I think you'd burst if you couldn't! He can buy you a beautiful ring and you can wear it with love, and because I know how women enjoy planning for weddings I shall tell you a few practical things which you must take into account and weave into your plans.

‘You should be married in the Anglican church – I myself will marry you – but Father Seamus from St Patrick's, whom I know well, should be invited to take a prominent part in the service, which I'm sure he'll be pleased to do. Then there is the question of where you and your husband will live and I'm afraid there's no choice for you about that. You must live in your Vicarage. As you probably know, as the incumbent of St Mary's you must live in the house provided and you must not spend more than ninety nights in any one year away from that house. What will Nigel think about living in your Vicarage?'

‘I don't think there'll be the slightest difficulty about that. I haven't seen his flat but I doubt it would be big enough for the three of us. In any case, I wouldn't want to uproot Becky again.'

The Bishop nodded. ‘Quite right! You must consider your daughter at all times. Does she get on well with Nigel?'

‘Very well indeed,' I assured him. ‘There's no doubt about that at all. They're good friends already.'

‘Then have a word with your young man about when he can come with you to see me, and let me know. And now we'll have a cup of coffee and you can tell me how everything is in the parish and how you've settled in.'

I went back to Thurston a very happy lady, and immediately phoned Nigel, who was over the moon with the news.

The following week came the day – Wednesday – when Bertha Jowett was to leave her cottage and move into the Beeches. She was to go in the morning, to allow her all day to settle in before bedtime, so on Tuesday afternoon I'd spent time with her, helping her to sort out which personal items she would take with her. It couldn't be many, there was a limit to how much her room at the Beeches would hold. I was to take her there while Ethel Leigh stayed at the cottage until the rest of Bertha's things, which were mostly going to charity shops, had been collected later that day.

When I arrived Bertha was sitting there, wearing an ancient fur coat, musquash, and a felt hat. I had never seen her in outdoor clothes before. I'm not sure she ever went out in the cold weather. She looked enveloped by them. Ethel helped me to put her things into the car, and when the last item had been packed it was time for Bertha and me to go. At the front door, before she stepped outside, she stopped in her tracks, turned around, and gave a last look at the house she was leaving. Her eyes went everywhere, floor to ceiling, as if she was taking photographs to be imprinted on her mind. She said nothing, nor did anyone else speak. Then she gave a loving pat to a small table which stood in the hall, waiting to be collected, and we left.

It was no more than a seven-minute journey to the Beeches. The bell was answered, almost as soon as it had finished ringing, by the Matron herself.

‘Ah! Miss Jowett!' she said pleasantly. ‘So here you are then! Come in at once, out of the cold. Someone will bring in your things from the Vicar's car. I expect you'd like a cup of coffee?'

‘Thank you,' Bertha said. ‘You're very kind.'

We followed Matron into Bertha's room, which was at the end of the ground floor corridor. It was a pleasant room with a French window looking on to the garden, and a single bed made up with a floral cover and a couple of cushions so that at the moment it looked like a sofa. There was an armchair, a kettle, teapot and crockery on a small table, a dining chair, shelves, drawers, a built-in wardrobe cupboard and, sensibly not too far from the bed, a door which led to what the brochure described as en-suite facilities. Really, at a quick look, the room could not be faulted, but I wondered what was going through Bertha's mind as she looked around this space which from now on would be her domain. Whatever it was, she said nothing and the silence was broken by a young woman bringing in Bertha's belongings from the car.

‘Thank you, Maggie!' Matron said. Then she turned to Bertha, who was sitting in the armchair, now looking rather pale. ‘I'll leave you to unpack your things,' she said. ‘And I'll see to some coffee for both of you. When you've emptied your suitcase Maggie will take it and store it in the locker room for you.'

When she left, and Maggie had gone back to the car to bring in more belongings, Bertha said, quite sharply, ‘I can't see me needing my suitcase again!'

I busied myself unpacking her things – half-a-dozen favourite books, a pack of cards, a Scrabble board (I decided that I would drop in from time to time and have a game of Scrabble with her. I had no doubt she'd beat me at it). Then followed a porcelain figurine, a china dog, and after that came the box with the photographs. Bertha delved into it to show me a faded sepia one of her parents – ‘Taken in the 1920s,' she said. ‘I was two.' She stood there, wearing an ankle-length white dress and a little white cap with a frilly brim, between her mother and father. There was a photograph in a silver frame of a handsome young man in air force uniform, with pilot's wings, about which she said nothing. All these things, and several more knick-knacks, she scattered around the room. She will make it really untidy in no time at all, I thought, and then it will seem more like home.

I stayed as long as I could and when it was time to go, greatly daring, I gave her a hug and a kiss. She seemed surprised, but not cross. ‘I'll be in fairly soon to see you again,' I said. ‘And Ethel is coming tomorrow to report on how the rest of the move went. And don't forget, a lady comes regularly to change your library books for you. If there's anything else you want, give me a ring. There's a mobile telephone.'

I went outside and got into my car. As I drove home tears trickled down my cheeks.

I am standing in the church porch at eleven forty-five p.m. on the twenty-fourth of December, greeting people who are arriving for the Midnight Mass. Since this is Christmas Eve I am allowed to call it the Midnight Mass, but if I were to describe the Sunday morning Eucharist as the ten o'clock Mass, there would be rioting in the ranks and possibly complaints to higher authorities, even as far as the Archbishop of Canterbury. Complaints have been made to His Grace for much lesser suspected misdemeanours by clergy, like ‘How much annual holiday is our Vicar actually allowed?' But never mind that now. This is the season of goodwill and I am filled to the brim with it as I see these people, many of them known to me, others total strangers whom I shall possibly never see again unless they are around next Christmas. I love them all, even those who, having refreshed themselves first with the Christmas spirit available in the Ewe Lamb, breathe fiery fumes over me.