Cast the First Stone

by Margaret Thornton

  Mrs Bayliss turned round from the cupboard where she was putting away the clean plates. Fiona noticed that she was not the one with her hands in the water; that was Mrs Fowler. ‘No, thank you, dear,’ said Ethel Bayliss. ‘We’ve got quite enough helpers. If we get any more we won’t have room to turn round in here.’

  ‘There aren’t any more tea towels,’ said Miss Thorpe; it was the first time she had addressed any remark to Fiona. ‘Anyway, we’ve nearly finished.’ Which was obviously not true.

  Mrs Fowler turned round from her position at the sink. ‘Thank you very much, dear, for offering,’ she said, smiling in what Fiona thought was a sincere and regretful manner, ‘but it would be a shame to spoil your pretty dress. Another time, maybe.’

  ‘Yes, another time . . .’ echoed Fiona. She glanced round, smiling a little nervously at the six or seven ladies gathered there. It was probably true that they didn’t need any more helpers. She caught the eye of Ruth Makepeace, and she fancied that the woman smiled back quite sympathetically.

  She went back into the hall, and Joan quickly followed her. ‘Be blowed to the lot of ’em!’ said Joan. ‘I flung my tea towel down, and I’ve left them to it. But don’t let them upset you; it’s only a few of them, and the rest of us are really glad to have you with us. You must be wanting to get home though, I’m sure. And here’s Simon waiting for you. Bye for now, Fiona, see you in the morning.’

  Three

  ‘I’m afraid my offer to help in the kitchen didn’t go down very well,’ said Fiona when she and Simon had unpacked their suitcases and were taking their ease in the sitting room with a cup of tea.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Simon. ‘But I’m sure they were only trying to be thoughtful. They knew you were anxious to get home and unpack.’

  ‘Hmm . . . maybe,’ Fiona nodded. ‘Some of them were quite nice about it. Mrs Fowler looked a bit sorry. I think she’s a kindly soul, if she wasn’t so much under the thumb of Mrs Bayliss.’

  ‘Quite so!’ Simon grinned.

  ‘And Ruth Makepeace. I thought she gave me a sympathetic smile. She seems a nice woman. I’d like to get to know her better but she seems rather reluctant, or maybe she’s just shy.’

  ‘Yes . . . she’s a nice person. Maybe, as you say, a little shy.’ Simon sounded rather evasive. ‘But you’ll win them all over before long. Don’t worry, darling.’

  ‘I find that Joan Tweedale is the best of the bunch,’ said Fiona. ‘I feel she could be an ally, if ever I need one. She was telling me about Mrs Bayliss and how proud she is of her position as enrolling member of the Mothers’ Union. She’s the one that I find most . . . antagonistic. No, maybe that’s a bit strong, but she’s not very friendly. She soon gave me my marching orders from the kitchen. Her province, I gather, although I get the impression that she organizes the others to do the donkey work.’

  Simon laughed. ‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head! You mustn’t worry about her, darling. I admit she’s had things her own way since . . . well, since Millicent died. But you are my wife now, and that’s something she will have to get used to. I’m sure she has nothing against you; it’s just that she’s been kingpin – or should I say queenpin? – for the last couple of years.’

  ‘Do you really want me to take on that enrolling member job? I’m sure it would be much better for Mrs B to carry on.’

  ‘It’s a position that is normally taken by the rector’s – or the vicar’s – wife, as the case may be. So it would be only right, my dear.’

  ‘But I thought you didn’t want me to be referred to as the rector’s wife?’

  ‘Nor do I. You have your own life to lead, irrespective of mine. But I think it would be right for you to take the lead in certain matters. We’ll talk about it another time, shall we, love? Now, if you don’t mind I had better adjourn to the study and finish off my sermon. You’ll be all right, won’t you, watching the television? Then we can have an early night. What do you say, Mrs Norwood?’ He grinned at her.

  ‘A good idea!’ She smiled back at him, thrilled as always at the look of tenderness in his eyes. ‘I won’t watch the TV though. I’ll finish reading my book.’ She picked up the latest Ngaio Marsh mystery novel, with the familiar green Penguin cover, from the coffee table. Although she was a librarian she liked to have her own copies of books by favourite authors and had amassed quite a large library of her own. Her taste in literature was wide ranging but she had too much on her mind to settle to anything too profound at the moment.

  ‘OK, but don’t frighten yourself to death,’ laughed Simon.

  ‘No fear of that,’ she told him. ‘Anyway, you’re only in the next room.’

  Simon leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘I’ll leave you to it then, darling.’

  Fiona sighed contentedly after he had gone, not starting to read immediately. This room, their sitting room, was pleasant and comfortable and she felt at home there already. The Rectory, adjacent to the church, was a mid-Victorian dwelling but, fortunately, not one that was overlarge or labyrinthine in design as many rectories and vicarages were.

  Upstairs there were three good-sized bedrooms and a box room, and a bathroom that had been added in the 1930s. Downstairs there was this quite large sitting room, a smaller dining room, Simon’s study, a small cloakroom and toilet, and a fair-sized kitchen.

  The sitting room was a mishmash of styles. The three-piece suite, in shades of brown and beige, dated from the 1930s. It was roomy and comfortable and the worn patches were disguised by chair back covers with crocheted edges. The cushions had embroidered covers that Fiona guessed might be Millicent’s handiwork. The carpet, too, was of a similar nondescript pattern, but the curtains, in a bold fifties geometric design in yellow, orange and black added a more modern touch. Unfortunately they did not really harmonize with the rest of the room.

  Simon had promised that Fiona could have a free hand with this room as soon as she had settled in. A new store called Habitat had recently opened in Leeds and she was intrigued by the modern furniture that was simple and functional in design, and the crockery and kitchen utensils in bold primary colours. They were planning a trip to Leeds quite soon. Simon had told her she could order whatever she wanted, within reason of course.

  She knew that a clergyman’s salary – they referred to it as a stipend – was not enormous, but she gathered that neither was it too stingy. And there was her own librarian’s wage as well, which she intended to put towards their living expenses.

  The one room in the house that was entirely to her liking was the kitchen. She had been agreeably pleased with the modern features in this room. There was a new material on the market called Formica, which hailed from the USA, as did many of the new inventions. It was a laminated plastic, tough and heat resistant, available in a range of bright colours, which could be used in many rooms but especially in the kitchen.

  Another comparatively new idea was the fitted kitchen with built-in cupboards and working surfaces. Bright-yellow Formica – fortunately one of Fiona’s favourite colours – covered every surface in the rectory kitchen and also the cupboard doors. There was a fairly modern electric cooker, a small refrigerator, a stainless steel sink, and a Bendix automatic washing machine. Fiona was thankful that Millicent had instigated these modern changes here, if not in the other rooms. She knew that she must tread carefully as the new wife, and not go rushing ahead with all the other plans she had in mind for the modernization of the rest of the rectory.

  By and large, though, she was very contented with her lot and happier than she had ever been in her life. She had been amazed at the way their friendship had developed. Simon was not the sort of man she had ever dreamt she would marry. She had started to believe that marriage was not for her. ‘Mister Right’ had certainly been taking his time in coming along, or maybe she had been too choosy; she had definitely been too wary. Then she had met Simon. The attraction between them had been immediate; and the growth of their relationship inevitable, even though they m
ight be considered – by others – to be poles apart. And the miracle in Fiona’s eyes was that Simon felt the same way as she did and had had no doubts about marrying her. Neither did he seem to pay any heed to what might have happened in the past.

  ‘I know you must have had friendships with other men,’ he had told her. ‘A lovely young woman like you. I’m sure you’ve had fellows queuing up to go out with you. I’m only surprised that you weren’t married long ago. And it’s my very good luck that you’re not. Although I don’t really believe in luck. This was destined to happen, Fiona, my darling. It’s fate that we’ve found one another and I shall never stop giving thanks to God that we met. I love you so much, and I know we’re going to be very very happy.’

  She felt very humbled, and a little guilty, too, when he spoke in that vein.

  ‘I’m no angel,’ she had told him. ‘Far from it.’

  ‘Same here,’ he had answered. ‘I’ve not always been a clergyman, you know. But whatever has happened to either of us in the past is over and done with. It’s the present that is important . . . and the future.’

  Fiona pondered on her new husband’s words as she sat there quietly on her own. She found herself remembering the first time they had met . . .

  Four

  The two of them had met in the early spring of the previous year, 1964. Fiona had recently taken up her appointment as chief librarian at the library in the centre of Aberthwaite. It had been a promotion of sorts, following on from the time she had spent in a branch library in Leeds. It was only a small library in Aberthwaite, with one other full-time member of staff and a part-timer. But it was just what Fiona had wanted: chiefly to get away from Leeds with its many unhappy memories, especially now that her dearly loved grandmother had died. She would not have thought of leaving whilst the old lady was still living, and Gran had lived until she was ninety.

  Now, though, Fiona was free to do as she pleased. It was fortunate that the vacancy had occurred in the North Yorkshire town so soon after her grandmother’s death. There had been only one other applicant, and Fiona had been considered the more suitable one. Following her appointment she had had little difficulty in finding a flat that suited her. It was a rented flat, but she intended to save up and buy a place of her own – a flat or a small house – in the not too distant future.

  It was a big change for her, living in the small market town of Aberthwaite after the large bustling city of Leeds. Fiona had been born there in 1934 and had lived in the district of Headingley with her parents. Then, after her parents had both been killed in an accident when she was twenty years of age, she had gone to live with her grandmother at the other side of Leeds.

  She had visited the dales before, with her parents and then with her gran. She had always been charmed by the greystone houses, the numerous ruined abbeys, old churches and ancient castles. The rippling streams and waterfalls, the rivers spanned by humpbacked bridges, the village greens and cobbled market squares, she had found it all so fascinating. Her love of the area had increased a few years ago when she had accompanied a group of friends on a tour of Wharfedale and Wensleydale; cycling and fell walking, staying in small bed and breakfast places overnight.

  Aberthwaite was a small market town that boasted many of the attractions that made the dales towns and villages so appealing. There was a cobbled market square, a twelfth-century ruined castle, and the squat greystone church of St Peter’s with its square tower and ancient graveyard, parts of it dating back to the fifteenth century. Not far away, by the banks of the river, there was a picturesque ruined abbey and, all around, the limestone hills, criss-crossed by drystone walls.

  It was during her second week at the library that Fiona looked up from her position at the counter to see a man browsing in the section that held the crime and mystery novels. He was what might be called ‘a fine figure of a man’, she mused, although his clothes were quite ordinary: grey flannel trousers and a tweed sports jacket. When he turned slightly she saw to her surprise that he was wearing a clerical collar, commonly referred to as a dog collar. She was not sure, though, why she should be surprised. Clergymen probably didn’t spend all their time reading the Bible or other theological tomes. He was good looking too, with fairish hair that waved back from a high forehead and well-defined features.

  As if suddenly aware of her scrutiny he turned and looked at her. He smiled then, a smile which reached his eyes, creasing the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth. A little discomfited – Fiona could feel herself starting to blush – she asked, ‘Can I help you, sir? Are you looking for something in particular?’ She stepped out from behind the counter and went towards him.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ he replied. ‘As a matter of fact I was looking to see if you had the latest Ngaio Marsh in stock. At least I think it’s one of her latest. It’s called Hand in Glove.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘It is a recent one. She’s a favourite author of mine as well. That is . . . I suppose you are wanting it for yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he laughed. ‘Don’t look so amazed.’ She hadn’t been aware that her slight surprise was so obvious. ‘We do relax from time to time, you know, we men of the cloth.’ His bluey-grey eyes twinkled as he spoke. ‘I read all sorts of books, but detective fiction is something that I especially enjoy.’

  ‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘Why shouldn’t you? I didn’t mean . . . well, any disrespect. I’m sorry though. We don’t have that one in at the moment. This is quite a small library and we’re not as well stocked as some of the larger ones. But I can order it for you. They will probably have it at Skipton, or certainly at Leeds or Bradford.’

  ‘Thank you, that will be most helpful. Do I have to fill in a form?’

  ‘Yes, a card, sir.’

  ‘I should introduce myself,’ he said when he had completed the card. ‘I’m Simon Norwood, the rector of St Peter’s.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Yes, I thought you might be,’ said Fiona, shaking his hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. Of course you might have been a Methodist, or . . . something else.’

  He laughed again. ‘I’m pleased to meet you too. And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, I’m Fiona. Fiona Dalton. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. I moved here from Leeds.’

  ‘Then that’s why I haven’t seen you before. But I shall look forward to seeing you again.’

  ‘Yes . . . I’ll phone you when your book comes in. Do you want to take out those other books? I’ll stamp them for you.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ He had chosen a spy story and one of the Captain Horatio Hornblower books by C.S. Forester. A typical male choice, Fiona thought to herself. But then the rector of St Peter’s seemed to be a very manly sort of man.

  ‘Goodbye then,’ he said, nodding and smiling at her, ‘until we meet again.’

  ‘I see you’ve met the dashing rector,’ remarked Hilda, the part-time assistant. ‘Quite a charmer, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he does seem . . . very nice,’ replied Fiona, with a show of nonchalance.

  ‘He’s set quite a few hearts a-flutter at his church, so I’ve heard,’ said Hilda with a chuckle.

  ‘Do you go to St Peter’s then?’ asked Fiona.

  ‘No I’m a Methodist,’ replied Hilda. ‘Mind you, I did think of switching my allegiance at one time, I must admit. But you can’t very well, can you?’

  ‘Er, no . . . I suppose not.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m only joking,’ smiled Hilda. ‘I’m happily married myself with a teenage son and daughter. But it must be nice to have someone so easy on the eye to look up to in the pulpit. Our minister’s getting near retiring age. He’s a jolly good preacher though, and we all like him.’

  ‘What about the Reverend Norwood?’ asked Fiona. ‘I dare say he’s well and truly married, isn’t he, with a couple of kids?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, he’s not. He’s a widower. His wife died a couple of years ago. It was very sad; she died quite suddenly after an atta
ck of flu. There were no children. Mind you, she never seemed to be quite right for him somehow, although I believe she was a good help in the parish . . . Do you belong to a church, Fiona?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I used to, when I was younger, but I must admit I’ve not attended anywhere recently. I was brought up in the Church of England.’ She might very well start attending services again, she mused. Maybe not just yet though; that might seem too obvious. Not that the rector meant anything to her, of course, apart from being a nice friendly sort of person.

  Conversation came to an end as two ladies were waiting at the counter. Fiona was busy for the rest of the day and at home she was too occupied to spare any thought for the charismatic rector. She was doing a spot of painting to liven up the dull brown doors in her flat. She loved bright colours and the buttercup yellow she had chosen added a cheery note to the rather dark hallway.

  However she was to see the reverend gentleman again much sooner than she had anticipated – in fact, the very next evening.

  As she didn’t yet know many people in the town, and because she wanted to earn some extra money to add to her savings for a place of her own, she had taken a job as a barmaid, three nights a week, at the Ring o’ Bells, the pub just off the market square.

  It was a somewhat quieter establishment than the Fox and Grapes, which was in the market square itself and was reputed to become quite rowdy later in the evenings, and it was also where the darts teams held their contests. The Ring o’ Bells catered for the less hardened drinkers and had recently started serving bar snacks such as sandwiches, baked potatoes, scampi and chips, and chicken in a basket. The publican’s wife, Ivy, now had her hands full with the catering, and so she had employed an experienced woman to assist with the cooking, and extra part-time barmaids, including Fiona.

  She loved the ambience of the place, the chintz curtains at the small mullioned windows and the matching cushions on the oak chairs and settles. There were sepia photographs of Yorkshire scenes on the walls – the Shambles in York, the ruined Rievaulx Abbey, the harbour at Whitby – and on the delft rack that ran the length of the room there was an assortment of blue and white pottery, Toby jugs and copper and pewter tankards.