Just as the cakes were being distributed, the Thorpe family came along to greet the picnickers and check that everything was satisfactory. Little Bertie could just about walk and, supported by a parent on either side, he toddled across the grass. Every few steps he lifted both his chubby legs and let his parents swing him along, which made him chuckle and cry, “’gen, ’gen!” Prompted by Mrs. Brookes, the children gave the family three cheers for the loan of the meadow and offered them food. Edward sat down near Jack and, once the children finished eating and dispersed, began discussing the barn situation. Sophia joined the ladies on a mat and left Bertie with an admiring crowd of motherly girls. Mrs. Brookes, Mrs. Grey, and Violet busied themselves in shaking the crumb strewn mats and collecting cups, while Rebecca and Sophia discussed the Hayworths’ imminent departure.
“I’m going to miss you both terribly,” confessed Sophia.
“We are already aching inside for Capford and all of you,” Rebecca quietly responded.
“Jack’s preaching has been such a blessing, and you are such a wonderful vicar’s wife.”
“Thank you.”
The two women absentmindedly watched the children playing.
“By the way, what will Violet do now?” asked Sophia.
“I think she wants to get a shop assistant’s post somewhere in Tunbridge.”
“I wronged her, you know, with that unfortunate business with my cousin. I owe her an apology and would be pleased to offer her a job—if she would consider working for me again.”
“She is a great lass, and I would heartily recommend her.”
“Would she be interested?”
“One thing I have learned about Violet is that you can never second-guess her. You’ll need to ask her yourself.”
“Would she make a good lady’s maid?”
“She’d be an excellent one—and a fun one too! What’s wrong with your current maid?”
“She’s got a better position in London.”
“London? Poor girl.”
“Do you hate London so very much?”
“Yes, but I shouldn’t be like that. Please pray for me that I will be more submissive about my lot in life.”
Sophia reached out and touched Rebecca’s hand sympathetically. “You are having a really tough time.”
“But I should be more trusting.”
“Trusting doesn’t mean we always enjoy our circumstances.”
“But we are instructed to rejoice always, and that can be very difficult.”
“You can rejoice in the good you have been able to do in the village over the years.”
“But why has it been cut short?”
“Maybe the Lord has another task for you to do.”
“Maybe.”
Sunday passed in a haze of sadness and gloom. The barn was full in the morning and overflowing in the evening. Many of Lord Wilson’s employees took advantage of the fact he attended only the morning service and joined their friends at Biggenden. Rebecca was amazed at Jack’s composure and clarity as he spoke in the morning. Attending the evening service, she decided, was almost like being present at your own funeral. She sat in the front row (miscellaneous chairs and benches had replaced the boxes), armed on either side by Sophia and Mrs. Brookes. She knew they were holding her up in prayer like Joshua and Aaron. Various men took part in the service to read, pray, or to say a few words of thanks to the Hayworths. Then Jack preached from Jude:
Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy,
To the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen.
During his sermon, he expressed his sadness at having to leave those present and exhorted them to stay close to the Lord. As he spoke of the Lord’s ongoing care for them, he seemed to remove a yoke of responsibility he had been carrying for the congregation and place it solely in Christ’s hands. The final hymn was announced, and instead of using the normal tune Dennis, Mr. Brookes started the melancholic melody Franconia.
Blest be the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love;
The fellowship of kindred minds
Is like to that above.
Before our Father’s throne
We pour our ardent prayers;
Our fears, our hopes, our alms, are one,
Our comforts and our cares.
We share our mutual woes,
Our mutual burdens bear,
And often for each other flows
The sympathizing tear.
When here our pathways part,
We suffer bitter pain;
Yet, one in Christ and one in heart,
We hope to meet again.
This glorious hope revives
Our courage by the way,
While each in expectation lives
And longs to see the day.
From sorrow, toil, and pain,
And sin we shall be free
And perfect love and friendship reign
Through all eternity.
The apt words of John Fawcett and the sad tune were more than Rebecca could bear. She wanted to sing, for the words held the sentiments of her heart, but before they had even reached “sympathising tear,” her breath caught in her throat and her composure slipped. Mrs. Brookes’s sonorous voice began to break, and Sophia stopped singing altogether. Looking up through her tear-blurred vision, she saw Jack, no longer singing, biting his bottom lip. The pent-up emotion broke free in an erupting snort of sadness, and she crumbled. Sophia wrapped her arms around her, but they were soon replaced by Jack’s. He left the new preaching platform, enfolded her in his arms, then with a loud, firm voice pronounced the benediction.
“Did you know,” asked Jack, once they were finally at their fireside for the last time, “about the writer of that last hymn, John Fawcett? He was a pastor of a congregation in Yorkshire, but after some years he accepted a new pastorate in London. He was packed and all ready to go, but he was so moved by the love and sorrow of his Yorkshire congregation at his leaving service that he changed his mind and stayed. I like the man.”
“So do I!” said Rebecca. “I wish we had the option to stay. I’ve never loved Capford and its people as much as I do today.”
“Me neither. Why do they only tell you how much they appreciate you and how helpful your ministry has been when you are about to leave?”
They would have preferred slinking out of Capford under the cover of darkness, but even in this their wishes were over-ruled. Edward Thorpe insisted on the loan of his best carriage to convey them to Tunbridge Station. They could easily have filled the cab with their luggage, but instead of being collected by an empty carriage, they found that Edward and Sophia had decided to accompany them to the station. The groom strapped the trunks and boxes to the back of the carriage, and the bags were squeezed in between and on the passengers. No one knew what to say. Normal pleasantries seemed inappropriate, and no one had the wit or will to construct a wise or meaningful sentence. However fond she was of the Thorpes, Rebecca wished they had not burdened themselves the task of waving them off. It just prolonged the pain.
But finally, the last good-byes were said, along with the last firm handshake and the last tearful kiss. Having deposited the luggage into the guard’s van, Jack and Rebecca found an empty carriage and sank into the springy seats. As the train pulled out of Tunbridge Station and into the Surrey countryside, the burden of sharing other people’s emotions slowly rolled off Rebecca’s shoulders. For once, a delay in the journey would have been welcome, but the train did not run out of steam, and there were no sheep on the line, so the engine progressed at relentless speed. As the train puffed past the smoking factories and terraced houses of London and into Victoria Station, the burden of Uncle Hector returned.
CHAPTER 35
JACK HAD BEEN AMAZINGLY GRACIOUS and calm while packing up at Capford, but now, two weeks after their eviction, his mood
had deteriorated. Pacing like a caged lion, he prowled around Uncle Hector’s house, bored and grumpy. He had no study, no workshop, no income, and no job. Rebecca wished she could help, but her sympathy was wearing thin. She was in the same predicament. She missed her friends, responsibilities, chores, and kitchen and was having to invent things to do. Never had time dragged so frightfully!
Uncle Hector received the very best of care from Hester. Hester seemed to require no time off, and the housekeeper was extremely efficient at running the household. In short, there was very little to occupy Rebecca. Of course, she frequently spent time with Uncle Hector, reading to him or telling him about the day’s events, but there was so little to tell.
The physician seemed pleased with Uncle Hector’s progress, but Rebecca could not share his optimism. It was true that he could now eat slops and understand speech, but he was unable to move his left side and was still bed-bound. His awareness only increased his frustration with his own limitations. He had become highly emotional and uninhibited, roaring with exasperation or weeping with despair at the most trifling problems or news. Hester knew how to handle his moods and humour him, for she had seen this fragile emotional state in many a stroke victim, but Rebecca felt at a loss to know what to do or say for the best. His lack of conformity to normal social graces was so out of character that she hardly knew how to treat him, or indeed, who he was. His frustration at not having his slurred speech understood made conversation painful for all involved. Jack, particularly, had problems in deciphering his words so began avoiding conversations, limiting his interaction with him to twice daily reading and prayer.
Nurse Hester Haynes, though, was worth her weight in gold. Not only was she a kind and devoted nurse, but she was also a good companion. In a quiet, unobtrusive way, she mothered the Hayworths as well as nursing Uncle Hector. Despite initial protests, Hessie, as she encouraged them to call her, agreed to eat dinner with them every evening. During the many hours they spent together, Rebecca gradually heard her story. Hessie was born and brought up in Bournemouth, enjoying a happy childhood by the sea. She met a handsome merchant sailor when still young, and they soon married. To avoid painful periods of separation, her husband, David, gave up life at sea and took a job at Poole Harbour. One day while unloading cargo, David was knocked onto the stone quay by a tumbling bale of cotton, and falling awkwardly, he broke his spine. David was carried home to die. Hessie lovingly nursed him for three painful months as his life slowly ebbed away like the receding tide. Alone and bereft, Hessie had to find her own way in the world. She had no extraordinary skill or experience other than caring for her husband. The relentless regularity of industrial accidents meant that experienced caregivers were in frequent demand. At first Hessie helped families who were unable to offer more than board and lodging, but as her skill and experience increased, so did her modest fees.
Whereas Hessie’s care of the patient was superb, Rebecca felt that Jack was not persevering enough in trying to understand Uncle Hector or his slurred speech. He seemed to blame him for the semi-captive state they were living in and to resent Uncle Hector’s emotional reliance on his niece.
“It is hardly living,” grumbled Jack. “It is just waiting without knowing what we are waiting for. It seems ironic that just when we are in a house with gas lamps, so can work late into the evening, we have no work to do, let alone to stay up late for.”
“The lamps make reading easier.”
“But what is the point of studying?”
“I’m not studying. I’m just reading a bit of Brönte, a bit of Austen, and dipping into Dickens.”
“I wasn’t talking about you.” Jack’s tone sent Rebecca’s eyebrows upward. “Anyway, those books aren’t my taste. I want to be preparing sermons.”
“Why not prepare one?”
“What’s the point? I may never preach again.”
“Oh Jack, don’t say that. I expect you will get another parish soon.”
“Do I really want one? Do I want to stay in the Church of England, with all its unbiblical associations with the crown and the aristocracy?”
“Not everyone in authority is as bad as Lord Wilson.”
“But why should they be in authority when they have no Christian convictions? They shouldn’t be meddling with the church at all.”
Rebecca changed the subject. She had heard his views on church government many times in the past fortnight.
“Why not do some carpentry? You enjoy that.”
“What’s the point?” asked Jack, throwing a log into the fire with unnecessary force.
“To do something pleasurable.”
“I wouldn’t know what to make.”
“Something for us.”
“We haven’t even got a home to put anything in.”
“Make something to sell.”
“No one around here would want stuff from me. They want elegant and expensive furniture. Anyway, there is nowhere here to set up my work bench.”
Jack picked up the newspaper, flicked through it for a few minutes, and then chucked it on the floor.
“I’m quite jealous of Joe and Violet.”
“Have they got into the news?” asked Rebecca jokingly.
Jack ignored this attempt at wit.
“The way they are going to leave everything behind and emigrate.”
“You’re not fed up with your nation as well as the national church, are you?”
“No, but a new start sounds nice. As does the luxury of actually having a plan.”
“God has a plan for us.”
Jack sighed and drew a hand over his face as if to wipe away his disgruntled mood. “You are right, my darling. I just wish we had some clue as to what it is.” He stretched out in the chair and studied the ceiling. “Maybe we should be joining your nun-like friend and be missionaries in Africa.”
Rebecca stopped knitting. “I have often wondered if we are childless so we can do something like that.”
“I’ve wondered too, but I’m not convinced it is what we are supposed to do next.”
Rebecca nodded and returned to her knitting. “We will just have to keep on praying for guidance.”
“And patience as we sit here idly and wait.”
Waiting! That word perfectly described their present existence. Waiting for what? For Uncle Hector to recover, or (they dare not say it) to die? Waiting for a child, for guidance, for work? Back at the vicarage, Rebecca had longed for more time with Jack; now she had his undivided attention but not his cheerfulness. On busy committee days, she had longed for leisure; now she had so much it hung heavy. She had longed for relief from domestic tasks; now she longed for a morning in the kitchen. In Capford her walks around the parish had been purposeful. Now the afternoon walks with Jack were only a means of exercise and a change of scenery.
As the weeks dragged on, Rebecca looked for new ways of filling the time. Is this how unmarried daughters of the upper-class feel? Filling their days with the latest craze of paper folding, fern collecting (which magazines mockingly called pteridomania), or tatting, petit point tapestry and painting shells, in a pointless endeavour of keeping occupied and looking fulfilled? The fashionable periodicals were full of these laborious—and often bizarre—time-wasters and useless things women could make or give away but never lower themselves to sell. How many pairs of embroidered slippers or decorated tobacco jars did a man really need? Was this really the best way for women to use their skills and demonstrate their accomplishments? Rebecca despised them all and longed for some honest, hard work. Meanwhile, Uncle Hector got no better and Jack got worse. In his view the local church was rubbish, the house was too hot, the gas lamps caused headaches, and the food was too rich.
After weeks of inertia, something strange happened: Jack started going out. With no explanation, he would leave Milton Square early in the morning and return late at night, totally exhausted from walking but unwilling to share his impressions. At first Rebecca was glad that he had started exploring London, bu
t as his return became later and later, she started to worry. Was her marriage, the one thing she thought was rock-solid, also going to crumble under her feet?
CHAPTER 36
WANDERING AROUND THE MUSEUMS AND galleries of London, Jack could not escape a sense of deep dissatisfaction with himself. Was his godliness merely a cloak he put on when other people were watching, only to be worn when he had a congregation looking up to him? He was thankful to God for the strength given during those last few, traumatic days in Capford, but now! Now he was in a melancholy state of self-pity. He recognised the symptoms and knew the cure, but one ingredient of the remedy eluded him—namely, hard work. He also needed childlike faith in his Heavenly Father. He was not being childlike in the biblical sense—but childish. Like a stubborn boy, he was sulking and asking why, why, why? God is not moved by such irritability, and Jack knew it.
Unable to work himself into a better frame of mind, Jack had decided to explore more of London. Had he been feeling more positive, the museums and art galleries might have been immensely interesting, but he walked around them in a detached haze of indifference. The world’s best paintings and artifacts were before his eyes, but they all seemed futile—vanity of vanities. Indeed, he felt he could have enjoyed the despondent company of King Solomon when he discovered that everything was fleeting and empty, and wrote the book Ecclesiastes. As Jack visited music halls and listened to amazing recitals of Bach and Mozart, the music transported him from his cares but proved to provide only temporary solace. The music was beautiful, but looking around him at the affluent audience, being forced to listen to their petty, superficial conversation caused Jack’s enjoyment to evaporate. Their whole aim in life was to see and be seen, cultivating their coveting and seeking to produce covetousness in others.
Dusters and Dreams Page 20
