by Pat Herbert
But Bernard, looking at his watch, shook his head. He didn’t want to risk Mrs Harper’s further disapproval by being late for his Sunday dinner. Besides, he was looking forward to it and, if there was one thing he could say for his curmudgeonly housekeeper, she was an excellent cook. “I’d better not. I seem to be in the doghouse, as it is,” he said.
“I see your problem, old boy,” said Robbie. “I suppose I’d better get back as well, as Lucy will have my dinner on the table in about half an hour.”
They were strolling slowly out of the church. “Maybe see you this evening?” suggested Bernard, as they stopped outside the vicarage.
“I’d like that,” said Robbie. Then he noticed a worried frown on his friend’s face.
“Well, I won’t come, if you don’t want me to,” he said.
“Of course I want you to, Robbie,” said Bernard impatiently. “I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise. It’s just that – well, would you make sure you go to the toilet before you come?”
Robbie’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline (and it was receding). “What?”
“Oh, sorry, that sounds weird, I know.”
“You can say that again.”
“It’s just that the plumbing, you know – ”
“Oh, yes. You mentioned something about the faulty chain. I still don’t see why you’re so upset about it. I don’t mind things like that, Bernie.”
“No, I know. It’s just that we had a chap look at it yesterday morning – a friend of Mrs Aitch’s. And, well, whatever he did has made it worse. Now the toilet won’t flush at all, and this morning I yanked it so hard, the chain actually broke off in my hands.”
Robbie roared with laughter. “You’d better get a proper plumber in,” he advised.
“Well, I wanted to do that in the first place,” said Bernard, “but Mrs Harper said he’d cost too much.”
“Aye, they’re not cheap – plumbers. But, come on, just a quick one. It’s only half past twelve. We’ve got time. And I’ve got some good news that I rather wanted to share with you.”
“Good news? I could do with some, after this morning’s fiasco. Okay, just a very quick one, then.”
So, the two men carried on past the vicarage towards the pub, watched by an irate Mrs Harper who was looking out of the front room window at them. “That’s the dinner ruined,” she muttered. “First the lav, then the sermon, now the dinner. Bloody man! No consideration, and him a vicar, too!”
Five minutes later, the two men were seated with their drinks in the Bricklayer’s Arms. Bernard had risked a half of shandy, which Robbie put down in front of him with distaste, handling the glass as if contained liquid plutonium.
“How can you drink that stuff, Bernie?” he asked, sipping his double whisky.
“Well, sherry’s my usual tipple, as you know. But I had a shandy once before and remembered that it was quite nice. Like lemonade, really.”
“That’s because it is lemonade, man, mostly.”
“Yes, I suppose I’m just not fond of alcohol,” Bernard was apologetic.
“Never mind,” said Robbie. “With me as your friend, you’ll soon learn to like it.”
Bernard wasn’t sure if this was a threat or a promise, but he simply smiled as he sipped his shandy.
“Anyway, Bernie, what I really wanted to tell you is I’ve won a competition.”
“A competition? Oh, congratulations!” Bernard raised his glass to him. “What sort of competition?”
“Oh, one of those put them in order of preference things they’re always running in the News of the World.”
“Oh, yes, I saw Mrs Harper doing one of those the other day. It looked quite difficult. It was a row of young ladies in identical pleated skirts, or so they seemed to me. There didn’t seem to be any actual correct answer, either. So, I don’t know how these things are judged.”
“I don’t know and don’t care,” declared Robbie. “All I know is I won. And guess what I won?”
He swigged more of his fast-diminishing whisky and looked at Bernard with a crooked grin that seemed to be spreading like a Cheshire cat’s.
“Golly, I don’t know. A book? Some money?”
“Guess again.”
“Oh, tell me, Robbie. Don’t be so annoying.”
“A tour of ten European countries, that’s all.” Robbie slammed his hand down on the table, shaking the glasses. “What do you say to that?”
“Wow!” was what Bernard said to that. “That’s marvellous! You’re a very lucky man.”
“Yes, I am, aren’t I? But you’re lucky too,” Robbie’s grin was as wide as it would go now.
“Me? How?”
“Because it’s a trip for two. Takes in France, Spain, Portugal, Sweden, Norway ...”
“You mean, you want me to come with you?” Bernard was completely taken aback.
“Of course that’s what I mean.”
“But you hardly know me! Haven’t you got other friends or relatives you’d rather invite?”
“Not really. You’re the closest friend I’ve got now. And I can hardly take my housekeeper – it wouldn’t be right...”
Bernard smiled. It certainly wouldn’t, he thought. “Well, that’s wonderful – for me, I mean. When is it booked for?”
“Er, sometime towards the end of May, I think. I haven’t got the details with me. What d’you say? Are you game?”
“Well, I’d love to come, but I’ve only just taken up my incumbency here. I don’t think the Archdeacon will be too pleased if I ask for a holiday so soon.”
“But it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, man! And you’re entitled to a holiday. Surely he’ll understand and get someone to cover for you? It’s not as if your congregation is that big – sorry – but it’s true. They could all be accommodated at St Margaret’s while you’re away, couldn’t they?”
Bernard thought fast. Yes, it was a chance in a million, there was no denying that. He had done a bit of foreign travel during his summer vacations while at university, but only to Belgium and France. There was a whole world out there that he hadn’t even touched upon.
“Okay,” he said, after a moment. “I’d love to come with you, Robbie. Let me see what the Archdeacon has to say first, though. If he agrees, then you’re on. Who are you getting to cover for you, by the way?”
“Ah! For me it’s easy. My predecessor, old Dr Winfield, will be more than happy to oblige. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he was ready to retire, but he kept making mistakes, so he was gently ‘forced’ to go, if you know what I mean.”
“But surely he won’t be suitable if he makes mistakes?” Bernard was a little shocked that Robbie considered leaving his patients in the hands of an old duffer like that.
“Oh, there’s no real harm he can do. Most of my patients will be happy to wait until I get back anyway. If there’s a real emergency, he’ll be given strict instructions to refer them to the hospital without delay. No need to worry.”
“If you say so, Robbie,” said Bernard doubtfully.
Robbie drew out a letter and showed it to him. “Here, Bernie. These are all the places we’ll be visiting.”
It was the trip of a lifetime for both of them, and they began deciding which sights they would visit in the short time that had been allotted to each country, according to the itinerary given in Robbie’s letter. It was Bernard who suddenly remembered the Sunday dinners waiting for them. So lost had they both been in mapping out their coming tour, that neither man had noticed the rumblings in their stomachs which, they now feared, would match the angry rumblings of Lucy Carter and Nancy Harper. With one accord, they finished their drinks and left the pub with somewhat more speed than they had entered it.
“Thank you, Mrs Harper, this looks delicious.”
“It’s spoiled, that’s what it is,” stated Mrs Harper, standing over Bernard, with her arms folded.
“Not at all,” said Bernard, sampling the dried-up beef.
“It’s perfect.”
“Get away with you,” she said, unmollified. “Your dinner ’as been sitting in the oven for over ’alf an hour. I tell you now, I don’t like cooking good food just to see it ruined by selfish people who’d rather go to the pub.”
Bernard knew she was right and was suitably chastened as he chewed his way through his unappetising meal. But as soon as she left the room, his spirits lifted. It was a shame about the roast beef, but nothing could dampen his good mood now. The day hadn’t turned out so badly after all. So what if his sermon had been too long? That was easily remedied. He was going on a tour of Europe with his new friend, Robbie MacTavish, and life was good again.
When he had finished his dinner (the apple pie had been compensation as it hadn’t been ruined like the main course), he retired to his study and, sitting by the fire, lit his pipe and began to dream of exotic places and warm sun. He started to plan his wardrobe for the trip; how many suits to take, how many shirts, how many shorts. And, most importantly, how many changes of underwear. The list was quite long he realised, and he wondered if his small leather suitcase would hold all he would need. Oh well, he’d better ask Robbie’s advice about what to take. Robbie, to Bernard’s way of thinking, was a man of the world and an expert in such matters.
As his thoughts turned back to that morning’s service, he had an idea. He went to the study door and called down to his housekeeper. “Mrs Harper? Are you busy? Can I see you for a moment?”
“I’m up to my elbows in soap and water, Reverend,” she called back. “The washing up don’t do itself, you know.”
Everything that woman said to him seemed like a rebuke. Bernard swallowed hard. Just who was the boss around here? He tried again.
“It’ll only take a few minutes. Please.”
“When I’ve finished. Not before.” The ‘boss around here’ was obviously Mrs Harper.
“Oh, all right then. When you’ve finished. Thanks.”
Bernard sat back down by the fire and relit his pipe, puffing it in silent rage. He would have to lay down some ground rules with that woman before too long, otherwise she would walk all over him. However, when she finally deigned to put in an appearance, she brought with her a tea tray piled high with home-made scones dripping with butter. At the sight of the butter, Bernard melted. This woman was really an angel in curlers and apron. Just how did she manage to keep the vicarage larder so well stocked with rationing still going on? She must have used up the butter ration on one scone alone.
She poured his tea and smiled at him. It was as if she knew what he was thinking, and her look told him it was better not to ask.
“Er, Mrs Harper?” he began, licking the melted butter from his fingers.
She interrupted him quickly. “Well, what do you want that was so urgent?” she asked.
“I’m sorry to be a nuisance, it’s just that I was very disappointed with the turn-out this morning, and I wondered if you could shed any light on the reason why?”
“Did you, now?” she said blandly.
“Yes. You see, I expected more people, seeing as it was my first service here. I just thought they would be curious, if nothing else.”
“Well,” she said, considering Bernard’s question carefully. “It’s been a while since we ’ad a vicar at St Stephen’s. I expect they’re still going to St Margaret’s.”
“Oh, I see. I wish I knew how to bring them back, Mrs Aitch.” He bit into another scone, and the butter dripped down his chin and onto his jumper.
Mrs Harper smiled, handing him a napkin to wipe it with. “There might be a way,” she said.
“Please,” said Bernard. “Anything. Tell me.”
Mrs Harper drew herself up to her full height (which didn’t take long as she was only four foot eleven inches) and gave one of her sniffs. “Well, you know I carry a lot of weight around ’ere, don’t you?” She paused to let the full import of this remark sink in.
Bernard thought, rather impolitely, that the amount of weight she carried was obvious, even to the partially sighted. “I’m sure you do, Mrs Aitch,” he said, smiling at her. She looked rather comical, standing on her dignity like that.
“I could get your congregation back without much persuading only, on the strength of this morning’s performance, I don’t think I will.”
Well, that put him in his place, he thought. “Sorry about that. I suppose it was too long, wasn’t it?”
“We could ’ave done without all the text quoting,” she pointed out. “You’d do well to remember we ’ave to get the dinner on of a Sunday morning.”
“Yes, I realise that. It won’t happen again. Do I get another chance, Mrs Aitch?” he wheedled.
Bernard was rewarded with a smile. “I’ll get you some more scones. And, Reverend?”
“Yes?”
“I think I can guarantee a much bigger attendance in the future.”
“Oh, thank you!” He was fast realising that his dumpy little housekeeper was worth her weight in gold. If she could spread the word and get people to come to his services, then she was obviously of some standing in the community. He was lucky to have her, that was for sure. He just had to be careful how he handled her. He sat back in his comfortable armchair and sipped his scalding tea with relish.
Mrs Harper was as good as her word, and St Stephen’s church was almost full to capacity the following Sunday. If there had been any marshalling of troops or coercing, there was no evidence of it. The people gathered looked happy to be there and, as he ascended the pulpit, they were all smiling at him. Some of the younger women were even fluttering their lashes with a look of pure adoration in the eyes underneath them. He was gratified by this, if a little wary.
When it came to his sermon, he had made sure it didn’t last longer than fifteen minutes. He had also made sure that he didn’t come across too heavily. He didn’t want to tell them to ‘go and sin no more’ or threaten them with fire and brimstone if they behaved badly. Instead, he told them that God wanted them to be happy, to enjoy themselves. Especially now. After the austerity of the war years, they deserved it. He smiled as he finished and was glad to see that his audience was still smiling too.
The hymns had also gone down well, particularly the one about the ‘green hill faraway’. In fact, Mrs Lavinia Pettigrew, a sweet old lady wearing an elaborate feathery hat and boa, came up and addressed him after the service on that very subject.
“I did enjoy singing that again, Vicar,” she said, shaking him by the hand. “It’s one of my favourites. Since I was a girl.”
Bernard smiled pleasantly at the frail little woman who reached no higher than his waist. She must be ninety, if she’s a day, he thought. “I’m glad, dear,” he replied. “It is one of mine too. So uplifting.”
“Indeed,” she said. “But, tell me, Vicar, I’ve always wanted to know. Why is the green hill in the hymn described as not having a city wall? I mean, green hills generally don’t have city walls around them, do they? It’s never made sense to me, that hasn’t.”
Bernard smiled. He enjoyed imparting knowledge on a subject he felt sure about. “That is a common misconception. It is not the green hill that doesn’t have a city wall. The green hill is outside the city wall. It is just phrased ambiguously.” He hoped he didn’t sound too patronising.
Mrs Pettigrew looked up at him with a malicious look in her eye. “That’s what you think, is it?”
“It’s the correct interpretation. Yes.”
She walked off, and Bernard could almost swear he heard her mutter ‘bollocks’ under her breath as she went. He couldn’t resist an inward chuckle, sensing she must be the local ‘character’ (one of them anyway), as he turned to shake hands with the rest of his departing congregation. It was taking a lot longer this morning than it did last Sunday.
When they had all gone, a frown marred his boyish looks. They were pleased with him and most of them had told him they would be back next week. Some had even said they would be at the m
id-week evening service, too. But what would they think of him when he gallivanted off on holiday after only two months?
Robbie appeared beside him at the church door. “Penny for them,” he said.
“What? Oh, I was just wondering what will happen when I go on holiday. I don’t want to lose my congregation for good.”
“Don’t worry,” said his friend, “They like you. They’ll soon be back.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Bernard, not wholly convinced. “Maybe I shouldn’t go, after all?”
“Don’t be silly, man. We’re going to have a great time. Do you really want to sacrifice such an opportunity?”
“No, of course I don’t. But – ”
“No more buts. It’s settled,” said Robbie with determination, as they made their way through the churchyard to the main road. The early spring sunshine was warm today, and daffodils added splashes of colour everywhere. Everything was looking green and beautiful.
“If you say so,” said Bernard.
He didn’t have the heart to argue. It would just have to be all right, he told himself, but he wasn’t looking forward to his interview with the Archdeacon. From what he had seen of him, he didn’t look the sort of man to bend easily. He had seemed to Bernard like something out of Anthony Trollope, a sort of male version of Mrs Proudie.
“Now, don’t worry, Bernie,” Robbie told him, as they parted company at the vicarage gate. “You just tell the old fossil you’re going and that’s an end of it.”
It was all right for him, thought Bernard crossly, as he let himself in. The smell of Mrs Harper’s roast lamb wafted towards him as he hung up his outdoor coat.
“So, the old buzzard is keeping you in suspense, is he?” said Robbie.
He and Bernard were sitting in the vicarage study, the chess board between them. He picked up his Queen’s pawn and put it down again in the same place.
