Danny fanned his face. “Oh my! Did she take her bonnet off too? And show her ankles?”
Even Alice laughed at this. “I know, I know. I’m sounding ridiculous, aren’t I? But it’s only because I care. Just you wait until Morgan’s dating. Then you’ll know how worrying it is.”
“I think we’re a few years away from that,” Danny replied. He glanced at Jules. “Anyway, I have to sort myself out before my son gets started.”
Jules felt all hot and flustered. She knew that Danny was only larking about, that he saw her just as a friend and didn’t have a clue how she really felt about him – but even so, sometimes she couldn’t help imagining how it would be if she was slimmer/prettier/not a vicar and if he wasn’t still technically married to Tara.
Jules was almost glad to have her thoughts interrupted by the sound of someone hammering on the front door: it gave her an excuse to leap to her feet and head for the hall. She really hoped it wasn’t Sheila Keverne, popping up on the off chance she’d glimpse the bishop.
“Better grab the chequebook; that’s bound to be the Pollards!” Danny hollered after her. “Maybe we should do a male version of the St Wenn’s naked calendar too, just to pay their bill?”
It was unfortunate that Danny happened to yell this at the exact moment that Jules opened the door, to discover none other than Bishop Bill standing on her doorstep. His mouth hung open and Jules was pretty certain hers did too.
It was impossible to say which of them was the most taken aback.
Chapter 21
Apart from the constant drumming of rain on the roof and the rhythmic splash of droplets into buckets, the vestry was silent. Jules hardly dared breathe. In fact, she’d been holding her breath for so long that her chest was starting to hurt and she was feeling a little light-headed. Every now and then the bishop turned a page of the document she’d handed him and sighed gently to himself or tutted, but otherwise all was still. Even the church mice made no sound.
There’s nothing more I could have done, Jules reminded herself firmly. Well, apart from gagging Danny, of course, and not leaving my mobile in the church. Apparently the bishop had tried to phone ahead to announce his early arrival. Missing his call had been a bit of an own goal for Jules, but a hot cup of tea and several slices of Alice’s excellent lemon drizzle cake had soon made up for it. Before long he’d dried out in the kitchen, his coat steaming gently over the radiator, and hopefully Danny’s gaffe had been forgotten. The bishop certainly hadn’t mentioned it and neither had he uttered the dreaded C-word either.
So far, so good.
The weather hadn’t improved though; if anything, it had worsened. As Jules had shown the bishop around St Wenn’s the nave had rung with the cheerful pings and sploshes of water dripping from the leaky roof into buckets and pots. Jules had switched the ancient heating on just after dawn and the pipes were sighing and clanking as the tired boiler did its best to warm the air. Bishop Bill had no idea how Baltic the place usually was, Jules reflected as she watched him scan the church register. She just hoped he didn’t think she was profligate with the funds by having the heating on in the summertime.
After the rather shaky start, St Wenn’s was putting on a good show and Jules was proud of her team. Sheila and her WI ladies had done a wonderful job of making the brass shine, Alice’s flower arrangements were beautiful and Susie Penhalligan had cleaned and polished until you could see your face in the pews. Even the Pollards had gone the extra mile with the strimming: for once the path to the church porch was free from its usual tangle of grass, daisies and valerian. Now all Jules could do was hope, and obviously pray, that Bishop Bill liked what he saw.
While the bishop read her report, Jules sat on her hands to prevent herself biting her nails – she was so nervous she’d be up to her elbows within minutes – and tried to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was no reason to feel like this. So far Bishop Bill had been absolutely lovely, complimenting her on St Wenn’s and admiring the beautiful stained-glass windows and the medieval rood screen. Would he be quite as impressed by Richard’s accounts or the numbers that the Sunday services attracted? Jules wasn’t sure. And were the St Wenn’s Facebook page and Twitter account as innovative as she’d hoped or just a little bit desperate? Waiting for his verdict was worse than getting her A-level results had been. At least she’d had the possibility of retaking those, whereas if she cocked up now Polwenna Bay and St Wenn’s wouldn’t be getting a second chance. Some wealthy Londoner would be gaining a nice addition to his property portfolio and the village would be losing the place where people had worshipped and gathered for generations.
At last the bishop sat back in his chair, adjusted his reading glasses so that he was looking over the top of them, and regarded Jules across the table. She felt a bit like Harry Potter being given a talking to by Dumbledore. If only she knew a spell or two! Roofus repairus might be a good one, or how about congregation doubleus? Maybe she should have asked Silver Starr for some help too. Or was that dabbling? Jules was so worried that she could hardly think straight anymore.
“You’ve worked very hard here, Jules.” The bishop’s kindly brown eyes met hers. “I can see that you love St Wenn’s and how the people here have really taken you to their hearts. That’s some achievement in a village like this; incomers aren’t always welcome.”
Jules thought back to when she’d first arrived. The reception from Sheila Keverne had made glaciers look warm, and she’d had endless complaints about her introduction of modern praise songs and attempts to use current technology in sermons. There’d been less moaning lately among her flock, it was true. Maybe they were all bonding in adversity.
When they weren’t stripping off for a calendar, that was. Still, the less said about that the better.
“Thanks,” she said. Crikey, her voice was so breathless with nerves that she sounded like Marilyn Monroe. Taking a deep breath and hoping that whatever came out next would be a bit more normal, Jules added, “I know we’re a small church and a small congregation, but St Wenn’s truly is at the heart of Polwenna Bay. The village really came together to raise money for the church.”
The bishop flicked Jules’s report open again. His straggly eyebrows joined into a grey caterpillar as he frowned down at a page. Wiggle, wiggle went the caterpillar.
“Yes, I can certainly see that. Remind me again how you’ve raised nearly eight thousand pounds in just four weeks?”
“We’ve had a charity dinner, a sponsored raft race, a duck race, a cake sale and some other things.” Jules was deliberately vague and crossed her fingers under the table. Lying by omission was no excuse and she knew it. Sorry, Lord, she said silently, but “a load of my flock stripped naked and made a charity calendar” probably won’t go down too well.
“All most impressive, Jules. I can certainly see that the community supports you. The toddlers’ group and the young mums’ club seem well attended too.”
“The slimming club’s popular as well,” Jules said proudly. “We hold that in the village hall but it’s run by the church. We’re a huge part of the community.”
The bishop nodded. “Indeed, indeed.”
An awkward silence fell between them. Why did she suddenly feel like one of the least competent contestants on The Apprentice? Jules wondered. Was it because she was about to be fired? Then the bishop steepled his fingers and gave her a searching look.
“And did the calendar bring in a lot?”
There was a whooshing sound in Jules’s ears and for a hideous moment she thought she was about to fall off her chair.
“I’m sorry?” she squeaked. Or at least, Jules thought it was her own voice. Forget Marilyn: she sounded more like one of the Chipmunks now.
“The St Wenn’s charity calendar? Parishioners posing exactly as our good Lord made them?”
This was it. Her career was over.
“You know about the calendar?” Jules felt as though all her blood was freezing.
“M
y dear, I live in Cornwall, not on Mars! Of course I know about it. I should imagine everyone does. They’re even selling copies in my local garden centre. It isn’t perhaps the most orthodox method of fundraising but it certainly shows the strength of feeling towards the church here in Polwenna Bay. It makes a wonderful community news story too. Haven’t Radio Cornwall asked for an interview? My office gave them your telephone number.”
Jules had hung up on Radio Cornwall so many times lately that she was at risk of getting RSI. To discover that the bishop had put them on to her was hard to get her head around. She stared at him, feeling a bit like Wonderland’s Alice after tumbling down the rabbit hole.
“I know this kind of activity does have a precedent,” he continued, “which is why I haven’t intervened – but was it really the wisest move?”
“Maybe not,” Jules said quietly. She felt awful. “I’m so sorry. I should have been stronger and said no when it was first mooted.”
“Hmm.” The bishop was flicking through her report again. “Eight thousand pounds in four weeks. Impressive. Not,” he added hastily, “that I’m condoning this kind of thing for a moment, but eight thousand pounds! Well, I’m sure you prayed about it, didn’t you?”
“Of course!” Jules had never prayed harder about anything in her life. Please, Lord, stop the calendar had been on a prayer loop in her head for weeks.
“And did you have an answer?”
Jules toyed with saying that short of Sheila Keverne being struck by lightning, nothing could have stopped the calendar. But this seemed a little too flippant and, besides, she could never quite shake the feeling that Sheila had the vestry bugged.
“Everyone was so excited. It brought all kinds of people together. Maybe that was an answer?” she hedged.
“I’m not sure the General Synod would see that as proof of God’s will,” said the bishop thoughtfully. “But perhaps you are right. I can’t see that any real harm has been done. I wouldn’t make a habit of it though, my dear. Maybe the naked male calendar should be put on hold?”
Oh crap. So he had heard Danny “Big Gob” Tremaine’s quip.
“That was a joke,” she said, her face hot. Just wait until she got her hands on Danny.
“I’m very pleased to hear it. I think one such enterprise is quite unfortunate enough. As for two, well… Consider this an unofficial warning.”
“That’s it? You’re not going to discipline me? I can carry on here?” All of her dark, dead-of-night fears were crawling out of the shadows now.
The eyebrow-caterpillar broke in two as the older man gave her a wry smile.
“I can’t say that I advocate or would ever actively encourage such a course of action, and I would certainly say to you that this sort of thing mustn’t take place again, but I have been touched by how the Polwenna Bay community has pulled together to help. They clearly feel a great affinity for St Wenn’s.”
Jules bit her lip. It was probably best he thought this rather than knowing the truth: her flock contained a hard core of total exhibitionists who couldn’t wait to strip off.
“However,” the bishop said, his features shifting into an altogether more serious expression, “from now on, Reverend Mathieson, I suggest that you stick strictly to jumble sales and coffee mornings. I do not want to wake up and read about Fifty Shades of Polwenna Bay over my cornflakes. Do I make myself clear? The Church of England must not be brought into disrepute.”
Nodding fervently, Jules replied, “Absolutely! Totally! I promise nothing like this will ever happen again. From now on it will be tea parties and bring-and-buy sales.”
“With everyone fully clothed, of course,” said the bishop, completely deadpan.
Jules’s eyes widened. Could it be possible that the bishop was actually amused by the whole fiasco, when she’d literally had sleepless nights because of it? His tone was stern but there was a glint in his eye and she was starting to suspect that he admired the villagers for their sheer cheek (if not their actual bare cheeks), even if he couldn’t openly say so. He was right though: the church had a reputation to uphold and the great and not so good of Polwenna Bay might not have enhanced this, however well-intentioned their motives.
Jules just hoped she would be able to keep them all under control in the future, although she feared that would prove easier said than done.
She hung her head. “I’m so sorry. You have my word that nothing like this will ever happen again.”
Even if I have to lock Sheila in the crypt, she added silently.
“The fact remains, however, that St Wenn’s itself is rather underused in the traditional sense,” the bishop continued, while Jules’s blood pressure began to return to normal. “There hasn’t been a christening for over four years, the last wedding was in 2012 and nobody has been confirmed for a very long time.”
“We’ve had a couple of funerals,” Jules offered.
“Yes, funerals keep us going,” he agreed sardonically, “but generally at the expense of the congregation, wouldn’t you agree?”
Jules couldn’t deny it. The last two people she’d buried in the small churchyard at the top of the hill had been in their late eighties and regular attenders.
“Dwindling congregations are a real problem in rural areas,” she reminded him. “It’s especially difficult in villages like Polwenna Bay where so many houses have become second homes. But there are still people here who come and worship, and the church is really important to the village. People who might not choose to worship on a Sunday still come in to pray and reflect.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“And I’m very busy too!” Jules cried in frustration. “There’s a genuine need here for a pastor. Maybe not in the old sense of the job – you know, up in the pulpit and spouting forth about fire and brimstone – but in the very real sense of counselling people, listening to them and supporting them. All the things that Jesus did, in fact.”
“I agree with you, Jules, and in an ideal world of course the church should remain open, even if just two or three people wish to meet there and worship – but we don’t live in an ideal world, do we?”
She stared at him. “What are you saying?”
The bishop sighed. “I’m saying that the issue remains that keeping this church running is an expensive exercise and, on paper, it doesn’t seem viable if the present situation continues.”
“You’ll close St Wenn’s?”
“I’m saying that could be a distinct possibility. You do a marvellous job and,” he peered at her over his glasses, “calendar aside, you’re a credit to the Church. If there’s a way to keep St Wenn’s operating then we’ll do our very best to find it.”
“More people at the services?” Achieving that would be a challenge, thought Jules.
“That would be wonderful, but it’s not the only thing that might help. Some weddings? More fundraising? Christenings? Suitable things like that?” He took his glasses off and folded them up with a snap. “Do you think that’s possible?”
Jules nodded. It was a reprieve, then. He hadn’t sounded the death knell just yet. She made a mental note to sound Jake and Summer out about getting married.
The bishop tucked his glasses into the front pocket of his ecclesiastical shirt. “Good. Then we can meet again and review the situation. Maybe in three months’ time. That should give you ample opportunity to put something in place.”
With the discussion over, the bishop and Jules prayed together for a while. Jules’ prayers were of the frantic let me think of something kind, whereas she was sure the bishop’s were far more worthy and eloquent. Hopefully God would get the gist though and send her some kind of miracle. She just needed to have faith.
Having said their amens, the bishop and Jules left the vestry and, dodging various buckets and leaks, made their way back through St Wenn’s. Ignorant that its fate was in the balance, the building was as peaceful as always. Even on such a gloomy day, shards of coloured light from the windows soothed the grey stone an
d belied the even greyer world outside.
Ashley Carstairs was sitting at the back of the church, without Miss September for once, and as Jules drew level with him he gave her a smile. She was taken aback by this; usually she and Ashley barely acknowledged one another, even though he was almost as much a part of the place these days as the font or the pulpit. She’d made a deliberate point of not prying into his private affairs and he’d always seemed more than happy to leave things that way. Still, she hoped the bishop noticed him today. If only Ashley had been wearing a flashing sandwich board that read I’m a parishioner using the church! Who knew, but it might have helped.
“Good morning, Vicar,” Ashley said quietly.
Jules almost fell over in shock at being addressed by him. “Err, good morning, Ashley.”
The bishop looked from Jules to Ashley and, realising that he was waiting for an introduction, Jules said quickly, “Ashley, this is the bishop.”
Ashley held his hand out. “Sorry, how rude of me not to introduce myself. I’m Ashley Carstairs. I live in the village, although Jules probably feels as though I live in St Wenn’s. What do you think of Polwenna Bay? It isn’t usually this soggy.”
Jules had never heard him say so much or look so interested. In her experience of him Ashley was generally pretty taciturn. If this was what being in love with Mo was doing for Ashley then she was all for it.
Bishop Bill shook Ashley’s hand. “I’m most impressed with the village and with Jules. She’s working very hard.”
Ashley’s face was thin and pale but his dark eyes were as warm as molasses and there was something different about him. Although he’d lost weight and his sharp features were more pronounced than ever, he looked happy, Jules realised, and it suited him.
“Jules is certainly well thought of here,” he said kindly. “I’m not a regular churchgoer, I’m afraid, but I come here all the time in the week and she leaves me in peace to think and reflect. I don’t know what I would have done at times without that.” To Jules, who was open-mouthed, he added, “I’m actually hoping your Big Boss might listen to me about a couple of things? It’s really important. Could you put in a good word?”
A Time for Living: Polwenna Bay 2 Page 20
