Cast the First Stone

by Margaret Thornton

  They seemed ill at ease as they looked at one another. ‘As a matter of fact . . . Yvonne isn’t here now,’ said Phyllis.

  Simon frowned. ‘What do you mean, not here? Has she gone on leave. Or . . . she’s not ill, is she?’

  ‘No, she’s been transferred to another camp,’ said Eileen. ‘She went a few days ago, but we don’t know where she’s gone. She didn’t say, or maybe she didn’t know.’

  ‘But she’s only been here – what? – five months or so. I don’t understand.’

  ‘No, neither do we,’ said Phyllis. ‘She was rather cagey about it, I must admit.’

  Mavis returned with a tray holding three mugs of coffee and three Kit-Kat biscuits. ‘Hello, Simon,’ she said. ‘Oh dear! I should have got a drink for you. Sorry, I hadn’t seen you there.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Simon. ‘I won’t be stopping. They’ve just been telling me about Yvonne.’

  ‘Oh . . . yes, I see.’ Mavis gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Simon. Actually . . . I did ask her if she had a message for you, but she said no.’

  ‘Is that all she said?’ asked Simon, feeling very puzzled and disappointed.

  ‘Well . . . what she actually said was, “No, I don’t think so. It’s probably best this way.” And the next day she’d gone. It was a shock to us as well.’

  ‘I suppose that’s that then,’ Simon shrugged. He paused before saying, ‘We were just good friends, you know, Yvonne and me. We never intended to get serious, but I must admit I was getting very fond of her.’ He stopped then; there was no need to give any explanation to Yvonne’s friends. They were looking at him with concern. He smiled wryly. ‘It’s just one of those things, I suppose. Thanks for telling me anyway. I’ll see you around.’

  He didn’t feel like returning to his mates. It was November, and the night was cold and still with just a faint glow from the moon. He made his way along the country lane that led to the village pub. He didn’t want any company save his own, and there was no one there that he recognized.

  The whisky he ordered soon disappeared, followed by his usual pint of bitter, then another in quick succession. He was brooding about how much he would miss Yvonne. What had gone wrong? Had her sudden departure got something to do with him? Maybe she was regretting what they had done, although she had been just as willing as he was to take that step. Maybe she had heard from her boyfriend and was feeling guilty about him, Simon. Had she asked for another transfer, to get herself out of a difficult situation? He would probably never know, or ever see her again.

  He could not remember ever feeling so bewildered and dejected. He was about to order a third pint. Why not drink himself into oblivion? What the hell did it matter? Then something brought him to a halt. He closed his eyes; he felt decidedly woozy, but the commonsensical part of his brain told him he would be unable to get back to camp if he drank any more. This was not the answer to his problem. What was it all about, anyway? A young woman with whom he had had a wartime friendship. Yvonne had simply brought it to an end, and he had to get over it.

  Twenty

  Simon was twenty-four when the war came to an end. He was demobbed from the RAF in the late summer of 1945.

  His position at the estate agency in Bradford was still open for him, should he want to return to it. He felt somewhat guilty in doing so as he had already made a decision about his future career. He saw it as more of a ‘calling’, though, than a career that he had actively chosen. Simon knew that he wanted to enrol at a theological college and train to be what was known as a ‘Clerk in Holy Orders’; in other words a parish priest or a vicar, as they were more commonly called in the Church of England, starting initially as a curate. He made it clear to his employers that he was working there only on a temporary basis.

  It was too late for the admission of 1945, but in 1946 he was pleased to learn that he had been successful in his application and interview and was to start his training in September at a college in north Yorkshire.

  No one was more surprised than the members of his own family.

  ‘By heck, lad, that’s a turn up for the book!’ his father said in his usual forthright way. ‘I must confess I’ve never seen you as a “Holy Joe”.’

  ‘And nor will I ever be, Dad,’ replied Simon. ‘I’ve had a change of heart. Some might call it a conversion, but it wasn’t a sudden thing with me. I’ve come to realize, though, that I had no real aim in life before I joined the RAF. I was just . . . drifting.’

  ‘You were only young though, Simon,’ said his father. ‘You were no different from many young men of your age. I knew you would settle down eventually and make something of your life. It’s just rather a surprise, that’s all, to think of you being a vicar.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be a very good vicar,’ said his mother loyally as they drank their customary cup of tea when they had finished their Sunday dinner. ‘He knows how to talk to people, and how to listen to them as well, as though he’s really interested. My friends at the Mothers’ Union were thrilled to bits when I told them, Simon. It’s not every young man who goes out of his way to talk to his mother’s friends the way you do.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mum.’ Simon smiled. ‘That’s part of it, of course. Learning to get on well with folk.’

  ‘Aye, I know you’ve got the gift of the gab,’ laughed his father. ‘Our parson’s not without it neither. I must say it was a damned good sermon he preached this morning. Oh . . . sorry! A jolly good sermon I should have said. I reckon I’d best watch my language now, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Don’t be so damned silly, Dad,’ said Simon laughing.

  Simon was twenty-seven when he had finished his training. He had kept in touch with Mike Sedgewick, his padre friend from his RAF days. Mike had been very pleased at the choice of career Simon had made. He was still in the same parish in Sheffield, and by a stroke of good fortune – or maybe it was Fate – he was in need of a curate just at the time that Simon was seeking his first placement.

  Simon found suitable ‘digs’ with a family in the parish and settled down well in his new surroundings and his new profession. He was popular in the parish – as good-looking young curates always tended to be – with the older as well as the younger women; and with the men, too, who found him down-to-earth and approachable.

  Millicent Hogarth was the daughter of the family in whose home he had found lodgings. At twenty-eight she was a year older than Simon and she worked as chief buyer at a bookshop in the city. It was inevitable that they should become friendly. They shared a love of literature and they worked quite closely together in the church where Millicent was a Sunday school teacher and a keen and active member of the parochial Church Council.

  After he had been in the parish for several months it seemed to be a foregone conclusion to everyone – the members of the congregation, Millicent’s parents and, of course, Millicent herself – that the couple would discover that they were right for one another. Simon, indeed, had found that the liking he had for her had turned into fondness, and then to what he supposed might be love. They got on well together, they had interests in common, their commitment to the church being the one of primary importance. She would make, he thought, a most suitable wife. Although he might not have been aware of it, he was attempting to make up for his past indiscretions, proving to himself and his parishioners that he intended to live an exemplary life.

  Mr and Mrs Hogarth had taken to Simon right from the start and saw him as an ideal husband for their daughter; a far better and more suitable match than they had dared to wish for. The young women of the parish, many of whom had harboured their own hopes of gaining the attention and affection of the new young curate, were to be doomed to disappointment. In the autumn of 1948, a year after he had moved to the parish, the engagement of the couple was announced. They were married in the summer of the following year.

  If the vicar, the Reverend Mike Sedgewick, had any doubts or reservations about the match he felt it was not his
place to say so. He knew that Simon was not without experience as far as the fair sex was concerned; and there was no doubt that Millicent Hogarth would make him an admirable wife. An ideal vicar’s wife when the time came for him to have a parish of his own.

  The couple moved to a small house provided for them by the church and they stayed there in Sheffield for the next three years. It was rather a long time for a curacy but Mike and Simon worked well together and neither of them really wanted to break up the partnership.

  Simon knew, though, that the time would come when he had to move on. In 1951 they moved to Hull where Simon started his second curacy. By this time he was thirty years of age, and Millicent was thirty-one. They had hoped that she would conceive and bear a child, but time after time they were disappointed. Then, in 1952, they were delighted when, at last, Millicent discovered that she was pregnant.

  Their joy, alas, was short-lived as she suffered a miscarriage five months later. They were told that the child would have been a boy. It was a bitter disappointment to Simon. He had badly wanted this child for both their sakes. He was aware that cracks were beginning to appear in the fabric of their marriage, and he had hoped that a baby might bring them closer together again. There was more disillusionment ahead, however. Millicent had suffered greatly with the miscarriage, and they were told that it would not be advisable for her to have any more children.

  Simon was disappointed, not only because of his hope that a child would bring some purpose back to their marriage, but also because like most men he wanted children of his own. He would have been overjoyed to be the father of a son. What man didn’t want to have a son? Or a daughter, of course; that would be great, too. One of each eventually he had hoped, or more. Now his wishes were not to be fulfilled.

  Millicent, too, was disappointed, but not as much as he had expected her to be. After the first sadness and bitterness that she showed on hearing the doctor’s advice, she then seemed to accept it as inevitable, ‘just one of those things’.

  Simon continued as a curate until 1959 when he was appointed as rector of St Peter’s church in Aberthwaite, There was a certain mellowing in his relationship with Millicent at that time. Simon was pleased at his promotion, determined to do all he could to be a good leader of his new flock. He understood that the previous rector had been old and rather set in his ways. He knew that Millicent was pleased for him too, and she seemed happier at the move to north Yorkshire than she had been for several years.

  They proved popular as a couple in the parish. Millicent stood her ground with the somewhat implacable ladies of the congregation who had had all their own way in the running of the church activities for too long. The two of them worked well together and the church started to develop and prosper under their leadership. New innovations that he introduced, such as women in the church choir, and a Youth Group, were accepted after an initial resistance. He was gratified when people told him that they had noticed a revival in the church after a period of stagnation.

  On a personal level Simon knew that his marriage was not all that he would like it to be; but Millicent seemed happier than she had been at any time since their very early days together. He realized that they must try to appear to others as a devoted couple. He was, however, still a young man and he regretted deeply the lack of any real spontaneous love within their marriage.

  It was a great shock when Millicent was taken ill, very suddenly, in the winter of 1962. There had been an outbreak of ’flu in the town and she had succumbed to it more severely than many others. It was an even greater shock when it developed into pneumonia and she died as a result.

  The people of the congregation were very sympathetic and helpful. They had liked Millicent well enough, but she had never evoked the same respect and affection that they had felt for their rector. Simon was touched by their concern for him. He did not need to put on an act as he was genuinely sad at Millicent’s death. He had been very fond of her; he had believed at first that he truly loved her. They had been married for thirteen years and her death would leave a void in his life, mainly because he was so used to her being there.

  He noticed with wry amusement the attention of the women of the parish, especially the younger unmarried ones. He accepted their offers of help and their more material offerings of cakes, pies and home-made scones gratefully but impartially. He had worked closely, been before Millicent’s death, with a nice young widow called Ruth Makepeace. She was secretary to the Church Council, and they had come to know one another quite well. He had wondered for a while whether he might take their friendship a stage further. He suspected that she would not be unwilling, and because of this he knew he must be very careful not to encourage any reciprocal feelings she might have until he was quite sure of his own.

  He came to the conclusion that although he liked her very much it would never develop into anything more than a friendship. Admittedly, she would be an ideal clergyman’s wife; the church, together with her work as a schoolteacher, was her main interest in life. She was attractive in a quiet way, friendly and homely, and she was the same age as himself. He knew, though, that the vital spark that should attract him to her was missing. He knew now that it had never really been there in his relationship with Millicent either, and he must not make the same mistake again. He sensed her disappointment and a certain coolness towards him as she began to realize his feelings – or lack of them – towards her.

  Fiona Dalton came on the scene unexpectedly, miraculously, like a burst of sunshine on a dull day. And Simon knew at once that this was the young woman for whom he had been waiting for so long.

  Twenty-One

  Fiona had made up her mind to be a good wife to Simon in every way. She was a reasonable cook as she had lived on her own for quite a while, and before that she had done the shopping, cooking and household chores for herself and her grandmother.

  She and Simon had decided that it might be better if she worked only part-time at the library. She did not mind forfeiting her post as chief librarian as she now had far more responsibilities. She found she was able to manage the part-time work quite easily after the long hours she had been used to working. And this, of course, left her with time to help Simon with his church work.

  Fiona knew that this was expected of her, not so much by her husband as by the members of the congregation. St Peter’s was not a large enough parish to warrant the extra help of a curate, and so the new rector’s wife was seen by many to provide the ideal solution. She was eager to help in any way she could, but Simon had told her right from the start that she was not to be regarded as an unpaid curate, which was the lot of many clergy wives.

  She volunteered to be a Sunday school teacher. The attendance on Sunday afternoons in 1965 was still encouraging. Between fifty and sixty boys and girls met in the church hall at 2.30 each Sunday, dividing into small groups of six or eight, each with their own teacher. The groups were strictly segregated; it had never been considered ideal to have boys and girls together although that was the norm at day schools. Fiona – somewhat cowardly she felt – opted for a group of eight- and nine-year-old girls, thinking that they might be easier to control.

  She had also joined the choir at the suggestion of Henry Tweedale, the organist and choir master. She enjoyed the Friday-night meetings when they practised the hymns for the following Sunday, and often an anthem for inclusion in one of the services, either Matins or Evensong.

  Simon had also suggested – although he had not insisted – that she should take over the position of enrolling member of the Mothers’ Union.

  ‘It’s usually held by the rector’s wife,’ he told her. ‘Mrs Bayliss and her cronies will have to recognize you as the leader whether they like it or not. I suggest that you attend a couple of meetings and see how things are run. You may have ideas of your own about changes you might like to make. Then you could take over in a month or so, perhaps?’

  Fiona was very unsure. She reluctantly attended the next meeting. It was the first meeting of
the autumn session as they had a break during the month of August.

  Mrs Ethel Bayliss was in charge of proceedings and she welcomed the rector’s wife in quite a cordial manner, although Fiona still felt that the woman was looking critically at her short skirt and bare legs. It was a warm early September day and Fiona was making the most of the summer, still wearing her light dresses and fashionable sandals which showed her painted toenails. Most of the women, though, she noticed, were clad as though it was already autumn, in tweed suits or in coats and the inevitable hats.

  ‘We are pleased to welcome Mrs Norwood, our new rector’s wife, at the meeting this afternoon,’ said Mrs Bayliss. ‘Pardon me! I should, of course, have said our rector’s new wife.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Simon, if I may be so bold as to use his Christian name, has been with us for quite a long time, but Mrs Norwood is still a relative newcomer to the parish. Anyway, we welcome you, Mrs Norwood, and hope that you will enjoy our fellowship this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you . . . and please call me Fiona,’ she replied. Mrs Bayliss’s condescending smile seemed to suggest that her request would fall on stony ground, at least in some quarters.

  They started with a hymn, ‘Fight the Good Fight with all thy Might’, which Fiona hoped was not to be a prediction of her future dealings with the Mothers’ Union. Mrs Blanche Fowler played the piano, the cherries on her hat bobbing merrily in time to the music.

  There was a short prayer led by Mrs Bayliss, then the ladies all joined in saying the Mothers’ Union prayer which Fiona, to her embarrassment, did not know. Mrs Bayliss pointedly handed her a card with the prayer printed on it. She vowed that she would learn it before the next meeting.

  Mrs Bayliss then introduced the speaker for the afternoon, a lady from a local flower-arranging club, who showed them how to make an attractive display with just the minimum of flowers, enhanced with the use of ferns and any greenery that might be available in one’s own garden. She made it all look very easy. The most important item, Fiona gathered, was the block of oasis. She decided that she would purchase some and have a go when she had the time.