Cast the First Stone

by Margaret Thornton

  ‘I don’t know really.’ Ruth gave a slight shrug. ‘I don’t watch what I eat, not particularly. I suppose I take after my mother; she’s seventy now and still as slim as ever.’

  ‘I started putting weight on after I had the children,’ said Heather, ‘and I’ve never been able to lose it. And of course this lot won’t help today, will it?’ She waved her hand towards the array of food that surrounded them. ‘Gosh! What a spread! I can’t wait to sample some of those cakes. That is if there are any left after we’ve served the VIPs.’

  ‘Don’t worry; there’s enough to feed a regiment,’ smiled Ruth. As she looked at her friend she couldn’t help thinking that Heather maybe should lose a little weight. She, too, was wearing a dress with a short skirt, revealing plump thighs. The pale-blue colour suited her fair prettiness and her blue eyes. Her cheerful rounded face and her curvaceous figure were part of Heather’s charm, though, and Ruth couldn’t imagine her any other way.

  ‘Ladies, will you listen, please?’ Mrs Ethel Bayliss now called them all to order. ‘It’s time to carry the sandwiches and savouries through to the hall. A nice selection on each table, and make sure the top table is well served. Blanche and Joan – would you put the kettles on now, please? Our guests should be here in just a few moments.’

  Two

  Fiona, the new Mrs Norwood, looked round the room a little apprehensively. She didn’t like being the centre of attention, although she supposed, as the rector’s new wife, she would have to get used to the position. Simon had assured her that there was nothing to be anxious about. He had also assured her that she looked lovely – as she always did, he added – and she was quite pleased with her appearance as well. Simon had persuaded her to wear her ‘going away’ suit – a short-sleeved jacket with a peplum at the waist in a shade of buttercup yellow, over a slightly above the knee length skirt with a scalloped hemline. He said she looked like a ray of sunshine. The suit had been a minor extravagance, purchased from Schofield’s in Leeds rather than the M and S, or C and A stores where she usually shopped. She had decided, however, not to wear the small cap of artificial petals in a matching shade that she had worn on her wedding day, feeling that it might look a little too fancy for the occasion. Looking around she saw that it was mostly the older ladies who were wearing hats.

  Fiona knew that some of those elderly ladies were inclined to look critically at her make-up and her painted nails, also at her blonde hair – which, contrary to what people might think, was her natural colour. She had always been conscious of her appearance and tried to look her best at all times. Her lips and her nails today were a coral colour, rather than a vivid red, which she felt was more in keeping with ‘the rector’s wife’ image. Not that Simon cared two hoots, he said, about what the members of the congregation might think. He loved her just as she was and didn’t want her to change at all.

  She knew, though, that the position of rector’s wife was regarded as one of importance in the parish and she couldn’t help wondering how she would adapt to it. Simon had agreed that she should keep on with her job at the library for the time being. Fiona also knew it was Simon’s hope that they would be blessed with a child in the not too distant future. ‘Be blessed with . . .’ That was Simon’s way of looking at things. He regarded the good things that happened in life as God’s blessings. Until she had met Simon, Fiona had attended church only spasmodically of late. She had not given much thought to spiritual matters; not since her teenage days, in fact, when circumstances had caused her to doubt all that she had been taught in Sunday School. Now, though, since her friendship with him had blossomed into love and then marriage, she had come to realize that there was a good deal more to life than the day-to-day routine with its ups and downs. She had found herself starting to believe more fully in this God who meant so much to Simon, and not only because it was her duty as the rector’s wife to do so. She still had a great deal to learn, but with her beloved husband at her side she knew she would be all right.

  Mrs Ethel Bayliss, whom she had soon learnt was one of the bigwigs in the church – the chief bigwig, in fact – had met them at the door and had led them, with a good deal of bowing and scraping, to their places at the table at the end of the church hall; the ‘top table’ she had called it. The assembled crowd – Fiona estimated at a glance that there might be about forty of them – had all clapped and smiled in a very welcoming manner as the rector and his wife took their places.

  ‘What’s it all in aid of, this tea party?’ Fiona had asked Simon.

  ‘Oh, it’s just their way of welcoming us back,’ said Simon. ‘You especially, my love, as my new wife. But it’s any excuse for a tea party, if you ask me. We have to humour them. Mrs Bayliss and Mrs Fowler are in their element when they’re organizing church teas.’

  Fiona had met both these ladies soon after she had started attending St Peter’s church. She glanced across at Mrs Bayliss now, deep in conversation with Mrs Fowler, who was seated next to her. Ethel Bayliss was in her mid sixties, Fiona guessed; a large-bosomed woman who moved in a stately manner like a ship in full sail, as though she considered herself to be of some importance. Fiona, in all fairness, had noticed that she always dressed well and in keeping with her age. The navy-blue dress with white spots was stylish but discreet, as was the small white straw hat above her newly permed hair. Ethel – although Fiona would not dream of calling her by her Christian name – was married to Arthur Bayliss, the church warden at St Peter’s, a small unassuming man with a bald head and rimless glasses, whom Fiona rather liked.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Halliwell’s ginger cake is as delicious as ever,’ Mrs Bayliss was saying, delicately licking her finger and picking up the crumbs that remained on the plate. ‘I think it’s the combination of a small amount of black treacle with the golden syrup that gives it that extra something. I’m just guessing though. She’s very guarded about the recipe.’

  ‘Yes, so I’ve noticed,’ agreed Mrs Blanche Fowler. ‘I did pluck up courage to ask her for the recipe once, but she was very evasive. Still, we all have our little secrets, haven’t we?’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I must confess I’m the same with my Christmas cake recipe. It’s been handed down through our family for generations.’

  Fiona was fascinated by the bunch of cherries on Mrs Fowler’s straw hat. She assumed that this lady was roughly the same age as Mrs Bayliss, but the two were as different as could be. They were close friends, at least on the surface. Mrs Fowler was tall and slim and walked with a slight stoop. If one was to be unkind she might be described as ‘mutton dressed as lamb’. Her full-skirted nylon dress was boldly patterned with pink and blue flowers that did not really match her headgear. However, Fiona found her not quite as intimidating as her friend, and of the two she much preferred Blanche Fowler. She was the wife of Jonas who was the other church warden. There were always two, known respectively as the rector’s and the people’s warden. Jonas was a large rotund man who was also in charge of the Sunday School.

  ‘So you enjoyed your honeymoon, did you, Fiona?’ asked Mrs Joan Tweedale who was sitting next to her. ‘Well, you know what I mean,’ she went on, colouring slightly. ‘I didn’t mean to be personal,’ she added in a whisper. ‘What I meant was did you enjoy Scarborough? You had lovely weather, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we were very fortunate,’ replied Fiona. ‘There was only one day when it rained. And, yes, I love Scarborough, I’ve been several times before, and so has Simon. It’s a favourite place for both of us.’

  Fiona liked Joan Tweedale. She was the wife of Henry, the organist and choir master who was seated on the other side of her. Fiona put them both in their late forties, and they were rather more go-ahead in outlook than some of the other members of the congregation. Henry leaned forward to speak to Fiona.

  ‘I have been wondering, Mrs Norwood, if you would be interested in joining the choir? I have noticed on a Sunday morning that you sing out with great gusto and I’m sure you would be an asset in the . . . soprano section
, would it be?’

  Fiona smiled. ‘I should imagine so. I’ve never been in a choir, not since I was at school. But I can read music after a fashion and I enjoy singing, although I don’t know whether I’m a soprano or a contralto! Yes – that would be a nice idea. Thank you for asking me. But why the formality? I would much rather you called me Fiona than Mrs Norwood.’

  ‘Sorry . . . I was just giving you your full title as our rector’s wife. I thought you would like it.’

  ‘So I do, very much.’ Fiona smiled. ‘At least, I like being the rector’s wife, but it’s taking a bit of getting used to the new name.’

  Simon had been listening to this exchange and he joined in the conversation now. ‘I don’t want Fiona to be known as “the rector’s wife”, although I’m delighted of course that she agreed to take me on! But she is a person in her own right, not just my wife.’

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ said Fiona. ‘What do you think, Simon? Mr Tweedale – Henry – has just asked me if I would like to join the choir. Do you think I should?’

  ‘Ra–ther!’ replied her husband. ‘That’s a great idea. You have quite a few female voices now, haven’t you, Henry? And they have certainly made a vast improvement to the choir.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Henry Tweedale. He lowered his voice, speaking to Fiona in a confidential way. ‘Our idea – Simon’s and mine – to have women in the choir didn’t go down too well at first, did it, Simon?’

  ‘You can say that again!’ laughed the rector. He glanced a little uneasily across the table, but the Fowlers and the Baylisses appeared not to be listening. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he went on, in a quieter voice. ‘A certain amount of opposition, you might say, but we won through in the end. It’s to be hoped we will do the same about Henry’s idea for a Junior section, girls as well as boys.’ He made a slight nod towards the other side of the table. ‘But I think we’re making headway. Rome wasn’t built in a day, as they say. I’ve told Fiona about some of the – er – difficulties, haven’t I, darling?’

  ‘Yes!’ she agreed. ‘At some length.’ She decided to change the conversation, though in case she might be overheard. ‘I was just telling Joan how much we enjoyed Scarborough . . .’

  Mrs Tweedale was one of the women with whom Fiona was on first name terms. They had got on well together right from the start. Joan had a small handicraft shop on the main street of the town which sold knitting wools, embroidery silks and tapestry sets, lace and ribbons, trimmings and buttons: everything in fact for those ladies who were good with their fingers. That was not really one of Fiona’s talents, but she loved to go into the little shop for a chat with Joan and had been fascinated by the vast array of coloured wools. So much so that she had been encouraged to buy some wool in a shade that Joan called aquamarine – which Fiona had been assured was just right for her colouring – and a simple pattern for a jumper and the appropriate needles. Joan herself was usually seen in one of her own creations. Today it was a lacy jumper in a pale shade of green that went well with her auburn hair.

  They chatted a little about Scarborough and the childhood holidays they had all spent there and also at Filey and Whitby. Simon moved to sit next to Henry as they were talking about the joys of fishing from the pier. ‘Excuse me, darling,’ he said, ‘Henry and I are reminiscing. I’ll leave you to chat with Joan.’

  ‘How are you getting on with that jumper?’ asked Joan. ‘The pattern wasn’t too difficult, was it?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ replied Fiona. ‘If I get stuck I’ll come to you for help. I’ve done about six inches of the back, but it’s been put aside for a while. I didn’t take it on my honeymoon,’ she grinned.

  ‘No, I should think not,’ laughed Joan. ‘And I dare say you might find yourself too busy now to get back to it. I believe you’re still carrying on with your job at the library? Good for you, I say. I approve of what Simon was saying about you being your own person.’

  ‘Yes, he was quite insistent that I shouldn’t be regarded as what he calls an unpaid curate. But I gather, reading between the lines, that his first wife was very active in the parish? Of course I don’t enquire too closely, and he doesn’t talk about her very much.’

  ‘Yes, Millicent was quite a forceful woman and she did take over a lot of the duties. We hadn’t had a rector’s wife, you see, for ages. The Reverend Holdsworth was well into his seventies when he retired, and his wife had died some years before. Things had been allowed to lapse somewhat, so when Simon came along six years ago it was a big change for us.’

  ‘A new broom, I suppose,’ Fiona remarked.

  ‘Yes, exactly. He reorganized the Sunday School and started a class for teenagers, as well as the Youth Club. And the choir too. I’m so pleased you’ve said you’ll join us,’ Joan went on. ‘I joined when women were allowed into the hallowed ranks. It had been an all male choir when the former rector had been with us. He wouldn’t entertain the idea of women; I could never imagine why. I suppose he took too literally the view of St Paul that women should remain silent. And the diehards just went along with it.’

  ‘I wonder what they will say when they hear about Simon introducing a guitar group?’ smiled Fiona.

  ‘Yes, Henry has been telling me about that,’ said Joan. ‘I was surprised really that Henry agreed so readily, but he’s adopted a much more modern approach to music since Simon came along. Anyway, we shall see. And of course when Millicent took over the Mothers’ Union and the catering arrangements that didn’t go down very well with Mrs Bayliss and her cronies. They’d been running things their own way for ages.’ Joan was talking more freely because Mesdames Bayliss and Fowler and their husbands had gone away from the table. ‘They’ll be starting the washing up now, I suppose. I’ll go and help them in a little while, but I’m sure there’ll be enough helpers in the kitchen . . . As I was saying, Mrs Bayliss and Co had their noses pushed out, so to speak, when Millicent took over. Mrs B had been acting as the enrolling member for the Mothers’ Union – that’s the one in charge – after the old rector’s wife died, and then, of course, she had to give it up again when Millicent came on the scene. It’s always done by the rector’s wife, you see.’

  ‘Yes, Simon was telling me something about it,’ replied Fiona. ‘He hasn’t actually said so, but I think he wants me to take up the position. But I’m not a mother, am I?’

  ‘Neither was Millicent for that matter,’ said Joan. ‘But that’s how it’s always been – the job of the rector’s wife. You get in there, lass, and show them what you can do.’

  ‘What about Mrs Bayliss, though? Won’t she be annoyed? And I’m sure she can do it much better than I could.’

  ‘Oh, be blowed to her!’ said Joan. ‘She has too much of her own way. Start as you mean to go on, that’s what I say . . . Ooh, we’d best shut up now. Arthur’s about to say a few words . . .’

  Arthur Bayliss, the senior church warden, was standing near the stage at the far end of the hall, holding up his hand as a signal for everyone to listen. The ladies who had been in the kitchen came out, still wearing their aprons, and stood near the serving hatch.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Arthur Bayliss began. ‘I now have a very pleasant duty to perform. Will our rector and his lovely wife please come forward.’

  ‘Come along, darling.’ Simon came and took her hand as they went towards the stage, and once again everyone clapped and smiled.

  ‘As you all know, Simon and Fiona were married recently,’ Arthur continued, ‘and we would all like to mark that occasion with a little gift. This is from the members of the Church Council and the congregation . . .’ Arthur handed to Simon a small carriage clock made of brass. ‘We hope that all your hours and days will be happy ones. God bless you both.’ He shook hands with Simon, then, very gingerly, kissed Fiona’s cheek.

  ‘Thank you all very much,’ said Simon. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to hear me sermonizing. I’ll save that till tomorrow,’ he added to a ripple of polite laughter. ‘So . .
. all I want to say is thank you for the lovely gift, which will have pride of place on our mantelpiece. Thank you all for coming and for the welcome home party, not forgetting the ladies in the kitchen who have worked extra hard today.’ Fiona noticed how Mrs Bayliss smiled smugly as though she was preening her feathers. ‘And thank you, all of you, for making my dear wife so welcome in the church,’ Simon continued. ‘Now, do stay and have a chat for a little while. There’s no need to rush home. So long as we’re gone by seven o’clock when the Youth Club starts.’

  Fiona reflected on his remark about her welcome from the congregation. Some of them, indeed, had been very friendly towards her. But there were a few about whom she had reservations. Mrs Bayliss, of course, and there were others: in particular two women who were part of her clique: Miss Thorpe – a spinster of indeterminate age – and Mrs Parker, who Fiona believed was her sister. They had not yet passed the time of day with her.

  There was another woman, too, rather younger, whom she felt she would like to get to know. That was Ruth Makepeace, who was a teacher at the local school. She was pleasant enough, and polite, and Fiona felt that on closer acquaintance she might well be a friend and ally. But so far Fiona had been unable to engender any reciprocal warmth from the woman. Her friend, however, Heather Milner, seemed altogether different, very amenable and outgoing. Maybe Ruth was the sort of person who preferred to have just one or two intimate friends; there were women like that.

  Joan had gone into the kitchen, so Fiona decided she would start, as Joan had advised, as she meant to go on. She also went into the kitchen. ‘Hello, ladies,’ she began, ‘you’re all very busy. May I give you a hand? Pass me a tea towel and I’ll wipe some of those pots. Goodness, what a mountain of washing up!’