Mabel Thorpe’s bedrooms didn’t get done that day. Dora stayed too long as she often tended to do, but this time Mabel didn’t fidget and keep watching the clock as the rector’s wife’s reputation was torn to shreds. She had an early makeshift lunch, then set off to see her sister, Gladys Parker, who lived about five minutes’ walk away.
‘Hello; what brings you here?’ asked Gladys, opening the door in her pinny and with a pot towel in her hand. ‘We’ve only just finished our dinner, Wally and me. Anyroad, come on in. There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
‘It depends on how you look at it,’ said Mabel darkly. ‘You’ll never guess what I heard this morning!’
‘No, I don’t suppose I will, but you’re dying to tell me. What’s up? You’ve not had a win on the pools, have you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Gladys. You know I don’t hold with gambling.’ Mabel was very strait-laced; neither did she have much sense of humour.
‘Just joking, dear,’ said Gladys, who had only said it to rile her. Gladys’s husband, Wally, did the ‘pools’ religiously every week, far more religiously than he attended church. It was a bone of contention between the sisters, as it had been between Gladys and Wally at one time. But she tended now to live and let live; Wally was not a bad husband all things considered, and she had learnt to count her blessings. She had watched her sister grow more and more embittered over the years since she had lost her Cyril in the first war.
‘Here, help me dry these pots.’ Gladys thrust a pot towel into her sister’s hand. ‘Then you can spill the beans.’
Wally left his fireside chair when he saw that the sisters were getting ready for a fair old chinwag. ‘I’ll go and take a toddle round t’garden,’ he said, lighting up his pipe, ‘then I’ll not be stinking t’place out, eh, Mabel?’ Another of her bugbears was how the air in her sister’s house was often blue with tobacco smoke.
‘So what’s eating at you then?’ asked Gladys when they were both furnished with a cup of tea, a necessity when there was serious gossiping to be done.
Gladys’s expression changed from interest to surprise, then to shock almost verging on horror as she listened to the tale her sister was telling. ‘Well, I never did!’ she said at last. ‘Little Miss “Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth”! A child born out of wedlock! Well, I’ve heard everything now. Do you suppose he knows about it, our Simon?’
‘I’ve no idea. I wouldn’t think so. A Church of England clergyman! They have to be careful, don’t they, about who they ask to marry them? I mean to say, Millicent was the perfect vicar’s wife, wasn’t she? What a pity she died!’
‘In some ways she was,’ replied Gladys. ‘But I got the impression that they weren’t all that happy together, her and Simon. And he and Fiona do seem to be happy, don’t they?’
‘It looks as though he’s just the same as all fellows, though,’ said Mabel with a sniff. ‘Taken in by a pretty face and blonde hair. Well, he’s burnt his bridges now, hasn’t he, whether he knows about it or not.’
‘To be honest, I was getting to like her a bit more now,’ said Gladys. ‘She’s always so nice and friendly, and it must be hard for her sometimes, with us older ladies. She must know there are some who resent her.’ Gladys, in fact, was feeling a pang of guilt after her initial outburst. They didn’t really know all the facts, did they? And there must have been thousands of girls over the years who had made the same mistake as Fiona had done. Gladys recalled now, with a stab of conscience, that their own brother, Bert, had ‘had to be married’ way back in 1920. She was remembering, fleetingly, her own courting days, too. Almost impossible to think of Wally in that guise now . . . She pulled her thoughts back to the present.
‘She’s tried hard, hasn’t she?’ she continued. ‘To pull her weight in the church, I mean. She teaches in Sunday school, she’s in the choir, and she’s started that Young Wives’ group. And that concert not long ago, that was lovely; Fiona had a lot to do with that.’
‘Hmm . . . you’re changing your tune,’ snapped Mabel. ‘Should she really be teaching innocent children in Sunday school, and be in charge of a group when her morals are obviously not what they ought to be?’
‘And what are you suggesting we should do about it?’ enquired Gladys. ‘I think that maybe we should just . . . leave well alone.’
‘At least we should go and talk it over with Ethel Bayliss,’ said Mabel. ‘She’s the one we always look to for a lead, isn’t she? And she really ought to know about this. Ethel will decide what needs to be done.’
Gladys decided to take the line of least resistance. She was in a quandary. In one way, she wished she hadn’t heard about all this and that the woman, Hazel, whoever she was, had kept her mouth shut. But they did know, and she could see that it wouldn’t be right to keep it to themselves. And it was true that Ethel Bayliss was always regarded as the fount of all wisdom as far as the womenfolk of the congregation were concerned.
Ethel’s reaction was predictable. ‘I’m not a bit surprised,’ she declared, even though the others knew that she was, in truth, just as surprised as they were. ‘Didn’t I say he would live to regret it? Marry in haste and repent at leisure; that’s what I said. And you can be sure he’ll be regretting it now!’
‘That is . . . if he knows about it,’ ventured Gladys, a mite fearfully. Ethel, in high dudgeon, was a force to be reckoned with.
‘You think that Simon might still be unaware, then, about the trollop he’s married?’ countered Ethel.
‘Oh, come on now! That’s a bit harsh,’ said Gladys. She was not feeling quite so sure now about this scheme, this vendetta or whatever it was, that they were embarking upon.
‘I speak as I find,’ retorted Ethel. ‘And you know that I’ve had my doubts about her right from the start. Well, if Simon doesn’t know, then it’s up to us to make sure that he does, and as quickly as possible.’
‘And how do you think we should do that?’ queried Mabel. ‘Should we write to him, perhaps? What about an anonymous letter?’
‘You’ve been reading too much Agatha Christie!’ snapped Ethel. ‘No; I don’t approve of anonymous letters.’
‘You don’t propose telling him to his face, do you?’ asked Gladys. Rather you than me, she thought, fervently wishing at that moment that she were anywhere but in Ethel Bayliss’s house drinking yet another cup of tea. They would all be drowning in it soon.
‘No . . . but there are more subtle ways of going about it,’ replied Ethel. ‘Word will soon get round about our dear Fiona, you can be sure of that. And some folk may well decide that she is not a fit person to be teaching their children in Sunday school. Or they may decide to boycott her precious Young Wives’ group. Do you see what I mean?’
What Gladys could see, in fact, was that Ethel Bayliss did not have the courage of her convictions. It was all very well talking about what must be done, but Ethel was not brave enough to beard the lion in his den. What she was proposing seemed, to Gladys, to be somewhat underhand and invidious.
‘I wonder if Joan Tweedale knows anything about this?’ said Mabel. ‘They’ve become very pally, haven’t they, Joan and . . . Fiona?’
‘Yes, so I’ve noticed,’ replied Ethel. ‘But I don’t intend to tell Joan Tweedale. She and I have crossed swords more than once, so I steer clear of her now, if I can. She’ll find out though, soon enough, then we’ll see what she thinks about her bosom pal, won’t we? Just leave it to me, and I’ll drop the word into a few ears . . .’
Miss Mabel Thorpe, however, could not resist calling into Joan Tweedale’s shop on the High Street the following morning.
‘Hello, Joan,’ she said brightly as the door bell jingled its welcome. ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’
‘Good morning, Mabel,’ replied Joan, rather less cheerily. Mabel was not one of her favourite people, but she reminded herself that the woman was a customer, and it was her policy to treat all her clients with respect and friendliness. ‘Yes, it looks as though it’ll be a fine day.
Now, what can I do for you this morning?’
‘Well . . . actually, dear, I haven’t come to buy anything, not just now,’ replied Mabel. ‘I’ve come to see if you’ve heard the news?’
A titbit of gossip, no doubt, thought Joan. Out loud she said, ‘I don’t know, do I, until you tell me what it is?’
‘Well, fancy that! I felt sure you would know, with her being such a good friend of yours . . .’
‘And which good friend of mine is it that you’re talking about?’ asked Joan. She had an inkling as to who it might be and wondered what Fiona might have been doing now to set Mabel Thorpe’s tongue wagging.
‘Well . . . it’s the rector’s wife, Fiona,’ whispered Mabel, leaning across the counter in a conspiratorial way. ‘I have heard – from a very reliable source – that she’s . . . pregnant!’ The last word was spoken in a hushed tone.
Joan, admittedly, was a little taken aback that this inveterate busybody should know before she did – and no doubt half the parish would know as well – but she did not let her slight feeling of pique show. ‘Well, that is very good news,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they must be thrilled to bits.’
‘Ah, but that’s not all,’ said Mabel. ‘It seems that it isn’t her first child.’ Joan’s puzzled frown caused Mabel to pause for a moment before going on. ‘Oh no – and I’ve heard this on very good authority – she had a baby when she was only seventeen years old! In one of those homes for unmarried mothers, up north somewhere. And we were all wondering, Gladys and Ethel and me . . .’
‘What?’ asked Joan abruptly. ‘What are you wondering?’
‘Well, we’re wondering if the rector knows about it. I mean, he’s such a good living man, isn’t he, the Reverend Simon?’
‘And you mean to make sure he finds out, is that it? It is really none of our business is it – Miss Thorpe – and you would be well advised to keep your mouth shut, if you can manage that, just for once.’
‘Well really! There is no need to take that tone with me.’ Mabel’s face was turning a bright shade of puce which matched the woollen hat she was wearing. ‘I don’t go around saying things that are not true. My next-door neighbour told me. She saw her – Fiona – at the clinic, and the woman sitting next to her told her all about it, how she had been in the same home as her and . . .’
‘I don’t want to hear any more, thank you,’ said Joan. ‘Now, if you don’t want to buy anything I think you had better go. Good morning, Miss Thorpe.’ She strode across the shop floor and opened the door; and Mabel departed without another word.
Joan was taken aback to say the least. She felt, in spite of wanting to disbelieve it, that what the busybodies had got hold of was most probably true, as these tales often were. Should she tell Fiona about the story that was already hot gossip? She said nothing to her husband, trying to disguise her preoccupation. Henry, preparing for his choir practice, did not seem to notice.
She did not have long to deliberate about the problem, as on Saturday morning Fiona came into the shop. She looked happy, blissfully so in fact, and Joan knew at once that the young woman must be pregnant, but certainly not aware of the gossip that was circulating.
‘Hello, Fiona,’ Joan greeted her cheerfully. ‘You’re looking very bright and bushy-tailed this morning. Have you come to shop, or is this just a social call?’
‘A bit of both, actually,’ replied Fiona. She smiled, radiantly, rather than coyly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve come to buy some wool – pale blue or lemon, I think – and . . . I want to have a look at your patterns for baby wear!’
‘You’re pregnant!’ cried Joan. She came round the counter and kissed her friend on the cheek. ‘Well, that’s wonderful news! I expect Simon is pleased, isn’t he?’
‘Tickled pink!’ replied Fiona. ‘We haven’t known for very long; it’s not due till December. And you are almost the first to know.’
‘I’m really delighted for you,’ said Joan. She knew, though, that however reluctant she was to burst Fiona’s bubble of elation, she really must warn her friend that the gossip-mongers were already at work. ‘There’s something I must tell you, though, Fiona.’ She walked across to the door and turned the notice round to ‘Closed’. ‘Come through to the back and we’ll have a little chat.’
‘What about the customers?’ asked Fiona.
‘Oh, they’ll come back later,’ replied Joan. ‘This is rather important.’
Fiona sat down on a chair in the stockroom, surrounded by the merchandise that was piled high on the shelves; balls of knitting wool in what appeared to be hundreds of shades; tapestry sets; embroidery silks; ribbons and lace; buttons and bows. Joan pulled up a chair near to her.
‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ she said. ‘I’d already heard about the baby . . . because the story is on the parish grapevine. And . . . I’m afraid that’s not all.’
‘What do you mean?’ Joan saw the look of elation die away from her friend’s face to be replaced by one of fear. Then Fiona gave a deep sigh. ‘I can guess what it is,’ she said. ‘Are they talking about . . . ? Are they saying that I had a baby when I was seventeen? Because . . . it’s true. I’m sorry, Joan.’ She lowered her head, shaking it from side to side. ‘I’m . . . so very sorry.’
‘Why are you apologizing?’ asked Joan. ‘You don’t need to apologize to me, or to anyone, for what happened ages ago. Good gracious! I know you well enough, Fiona, to understand that it must have been a dreadful time for you, whatever happened.’
‘I thought it would be all right,’ said Fiona in a small voice. ‘Once I’d told Simon I felt safe. He said he’d take care of it all for me, and that she couldn’t do any more harm. But she has, hasn’t she? She’s told somebody, and now it’s all round the parish.’
‘Fiona . . .’ said Joan, very calmly. She leaned forward and took hold of her hand. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Hazel Docherty,’ replied Fiona; but the name didn’t mean anything to Joan. ‘I guessed it must have been her who sent the anonymous letter. But Simon said she’s had her say now and that would be the end of it. But she must have told somebody else and . . .’
‘But who is Hazel?’ asked Joan. ‘I haven’t heard anything about an anonymous letter. It was Mabel Thorpe who told me; her next-door neighbour saw you at the clinic.’
‘Oh yes; Miss Thorpe’s an old busybody, isn’t she? So all the Mothers’ Union clique know, do they?’
‘I gave her short shrift, I can assure you,’ said Joan. ‘In fact I was quite rude to her. But I knew I had to come and tell you what is happening . . . Do you want to tell me about it, love?’
Fiona told her how she had caught sight of a familiar face at the clinic, and so when the anonymous letter had arrived she had realized who must be the culprit; Hazel Docherty, the girl with whom she had crossed swords in the home for unmarried mothers. ‘What a fool I am!’ she cried. ‘I might’ve known she would cause trouble. She was noted for it when we were in the home.’
She embarked, then, on the story of how she, Fiona, had come to be in the home; all about Dave, and the church holiday; her unsympathetic parents; her banishment to Northumberland; and the subsequent adoption of her dear little baby girl. Joan listened with growing sympathy and a desire to help her young friend.
‘You poor love!’ she said. ‘What an awful time you must have had. So . . . I gather you didn’t tell Simon until you received the letter?’
‘That’s right.’ Fiona nodded. ‘I know I should have done, but I was scared I might lose him. But he was wonderful about it, Joan, so understanding . . . I do love him so much.’ Her eyes were brimming over with tears.
‘As he loves you,’ said Joan. ‘I think I’m getting the picture now. These busybodies – I gather Ethel Bayliss is one of the number, as usual – they think that Simon might still be in the dark about it all, and they want to make it their business that he finds out. Just how . . . I’m not sure about that. As I said, I shut Mabel up as quickly as I could.’
/> ‘So what shall I do?’ asked Fiona, looking quite lost and helpless.
‘Nothing,’ said Joan. ‘Just carry on as usual. After all, it’s wonderful news that you and Simon are expecting a baby, and I’m sure that most people will be delighted to hear about it, when you feel ready to tell them.’
‘They probably know already,’ said Fiona gloomily, ‘and the rest of it.’
‘Then leave it to Simon,’ said Joan with conviction. ‘He’ll know how to deal with the problem, as he always does. Now, you came in to choose some patterns and wool, didn’t you? Let’s see what we can find. Think positively, Fiona. You are expecting Simon’s baby, and that’s terrific news. Put everything else to the back of your mind. It’ll all sort out; I feel sure it will.’
Twenty-Seven
The first sign that something was amiss was on the following Sunday when two of the girls in Fiona’s class were not there.
‘Where’s Susan,’ she asked, ‘and Tracey? It’s not like them to be missing.’ Well, not like Susan Cookson at least, she thought to herself. Tracey, whom Susan called her ‘best friend’ had not been attending Sunday school very long, but she had seemed quite keen, and Susan had never been known to miss it.
‘Please, Mrs Norwood, Susan says she’s not coming any more,’ answered Shirley, who was usually the one with the most to say. ‘And Tracey won’t come if Susan doesn’t.’
‘Oh dear! That’s a shame,’ said Fiona. ‘Have you any idea why they’re not here?’
‘Susan says her mum’s told her she hasn’t to come no more,’ said Shirley.
‘Oh, I see.’ Fiona was surprised but didn’t think any more about it just then. ‘Well, never mind,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a look at our story for today. It’s about what happened when Jesus went to a wedding.’
‘Please, Mrs Norwood, I’m going to a wedding soon,’ said Wendy. ‘My aunty’s getting married – here, at this church – and I’m going to be a bridesmaid.’
‘Well, that’s very exciting, isn’t it, Wendy?’ The girls were always ready to chat to her with titbits of family news. ‘You can tell me all about it later, all about the dress you’ll be wearing. Let’s listen to the story now . . .’
Cast the First Stone Page 25
