The girls listened attentively as they always did. Fiona enjoyed her time with them on a Sunday.
She mentioned to Simon, though, whilst they were having their tea, that two of her class had been missing that afternoon. ‘It’s very strange,’ she said. ‘Susan is such a friendly little girl. She loves to chat; well, they all do.’
‘Like all women!’ laughed Simon.
‘Yes, maybe so,’ smiled Fiona. ‘Susan told me her mum’s having a baby; quite soon, I think. I know she was very excited about it. Oh, I wonder . . .’ A thought had suddenly occurred to her. The maternity clinic, Hazel Docherty . . .
‘Simon,’ she went on, a little fearfully, ‘I’ve just thought of something. Susan’s mum would go to the clinic, wouldn’t she? I wonder if she met that woman that I told you about. You know . . . Hazel, the one that knew . . .’
‘The woman that knew you in the home,’ said Simon. ‘Well, I suppose it’s possible. But try not to worry about it, darling. You didn’t notice Susan’s mother there, at the clinic, did you?’
‘No, but I don’t really know her,’ said Fiona. ‘I might have seen her once or twice, but I didn’t notice anybody that day; I was so het up about the examination and everything. It was only Hazel that I caught a glimpse of, and then I put two and two together.’
Simon would have loved to say to her, ‘Yes, and made five!’ But he was afraid that what she had said about the little girls being missing might be the start of something. He knew though that he mustn’t worry her unduly, especially at the beginning of her pregnancy. She was keeping very fit; no signs of any sickness so far, and she looked positively radiant.
He knew she was delighted at finding out she was pregnant, as he was. It should be a joyful time in their lives, one of expectancy and hope with nothing to mar their happiness as they looked forward to the birth of their child. Instead of which he knew there was a dark cloud looming on the horizon. A small one as yet, but he knew how the smallest rumours could grow and grow even within a church community. Possibly as much in a church congregation as anywhere, he reflected a trifle cynically. There were always those who regarded themselves as the upholders of morality, ready to condemn any who, in their eyes, had fallen by the wayside, however small the misdemeanour. Self righteousness was something he had always abhorred. It was, unfortunately, a trait sometimes found in the most hard-working members in the church, those who believed themselves to be the very backbone of the place and thought that their services were indispensable.
A proverb came into his mind, an overused cliché about the pot calling the kettle black. Then, more aptly, a verse from scripture; ‘Why do you see the mote that is in your brother’s eye but do not notice the beam that is in your own?’ Matthew’s gospel, he thought; he must look it up. It would be a good text for next Sunday’s sermon. He had just told Fiona not to worry, but he knew that she would be sure to do so. He had to be there to support and protect her, and he felt that he must quell these rumours before they got out of hand. Fiona had told him that already some of the Mothers’ Union members had got hold of the story, and that Joan Tweedale was refusing to have any part in it. Joan was a good person and a loyal friend; one of the best.
Simon understood perfectly why his wife had kept the truth from him for so long. It was up to him now to persuade her to hold her head up high and show the gossip-mongers that she was not afraid of them.
‘You’ve gone very quiet, Simon,’ Fiona said now. ‘You do think there’s a reason for Susan and Tracey staying away this afternoon, don’t you?’
‘Well . . . there might be,’ he admitted, ‘if I’m honest. And I’m going to be honest with you, darling . . . This story seems to have got around the parish already, and nothing spreads more quickly than gossip. I think you are right in assuming that it stems from this woman you call Hazel. And she told the woman who lives next door to Mabel Thorpe. Is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s right. And I’m thinking now that she may well be Susan’s mother. It all fits, doesn’t it?’
‘Whoever she is, she couldn’t have chosen anybody worse than Mabel Thorpe,’ said Simon. ‘She’s a real nosy old . . . so and so! And she would tell her sister – Gladys Parker’s a much nicer person than Mabel Thorpe, though, in my opinion – and no doubt Ethel Bayliss would be the next to know . . .’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I know I’ve told you not to worry, and you really must try not to let it get to you too much, my love. But I’m wondering what their game is?’
‘Joan says they – this Mothers’ Union crowd, I mean – think that you don’t know anything about it, and that they believe it’s their duty to make sure that you find out about your . . . sinful wife!’ Simon was pleased to see that Fiona managed a weak smile despite her worries. ‘But they’re going about it in an underhand way, that’s what Joan thinks. Perhaps they believe that if they snub me, and people start avoiding me – and it’s started already hasn’t it, with those two little girls? – then you’ll want to know why. And then the truth will come out.’
‘But what they don’t realize is that I already know about it,’ said Simon. ‘I believe there’s an answer to all this, Fiona, my love. God always provides an answer, one way or another. When you think about it, this woman, Hazel, has been an answer to your problem in a funny sort of way, hasn’t she? You’ve had to unburden yourself to me at last. And believe me, darling, I know what a burden it must have been to you all this time.’
‘Yes, so it has,’ agreed Fiona. ‘And it’s such a relief that you know all about it now. I must admit, though, that I’m scared, Simon. I don’t feel like going to church tonight – singing in the choir and feeling that everyone’s looking at me – but I suppose I’ll have to go, won’t I?’
This conversation was taking place at the tea table. They always had an early tea at half past four on a Sunday to give Simon time to prepare himself for the Evensong and for Fiona, also, to get ready to sing in the choir.
‘Yes, you must go, my love,’ said Simon. ‘You have nothing at all to be ashamed of. I really mean that, and let them see you’re not ashamed. Why should you be? You made a mistake, one that thousands of girls have made over the years and will continue to do. You can’t deny it because it’s true, and I know that you would not want to deny it. “Speak the truth and shame the devil.” I don’t think that’s a biblical quotation, but it’s what my mother always used to say, and it’s a valuable maxim. Do you agree, darling?’ Fiona smiled faintly at him. ‘Come along then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get these pots washed, then we’ll face the music together.’
The evening service passed without any noticeable difference in the attitude of the congregation. Fiona suspected that one or two members of the choir seemed a little embarrassed at seeing her, but she decided it might well be her imagination playing tricks. There was a visiting preacher that evening; a clergyman who had been a missionary in Africa. Mrs Bayliss and some of her minions from the MU were not there. They did not always attend both services of the day, and Fiona guessed that the way of life in far-flung Africa might not be of interest to Ethel Bayliss. She and her coterie were very parochially minded.
The preacher was interesting and inspiring, speaking movingly of his work overseas. Fiona noticed that there were more than a few pound notes in the plate for the retiring collection in aid of missionary work; this was in addition to the usual offertory for week-by-week church expenses. Fiona reflected that it was good sometimes to think of God’s wider world and of the millions of folk who were not so fortunate of those at home in our own comfortable little existence. She was forced, not to forget, but to lay aside her own problems for a short while as they prayed, at Simon’s lead, for people of other nations.
She was determined to be brave and to do as Simon had urged that she should, to hold her head up high and refuse to be intimidated by her critics. She was starting to feel a little unwell, which she knew was only to be expected. She could scarcely remember how she had felt fourteen years ago; her fee
ling of sickness then had been brought about more by anxiety and sheer terror rather than by her condition. Now she felt a little queasy in the mornings, but it was, fortunately, of short duration and by the afternoon and evening she felt quite well again.
It was the Tuesday that week for the fortnightly meeting of the Young Wives and Friends’ group. Fiona put on a smiling face as she greeted them, although she felt a little apprehensive. How would they react on seeing her face to face? Had the story reached the younger women of the congregation yet? She glanced round at the women gathered in the rectory sitting room as she prepared to make her little speech of welcome. Joan Tweedale was there of course, her great friend and ally. So was Gillian Heap who had proved to be a most efficient secretary. Ruth Makepeace and Heather Milner were there too, and the two younger women, Sandra and Karen. Their number had risen and remained at a steady sixteen; a quick count of heads showed that there were only twelve members there that night. The ones who were missing appeared to be those who had joined most recently, although they had all seemed keen to continue. Fiona decided to enquire if anyone knew of their whereabouts. Maybe it was just coincidence that they were all missing together, but she had a feeling that the four of then were near neighbours. They had all joined at the same time and seemed, somehow, to keep themselves apart from the rest of the group.
Fiona welcomed everyone without drawing attention to the smaller number, then she helped Sylvia to set up her projector and screen to show the slides of her holiday. It had been a coach tour of Switzerland, Austria and Germany. They all marvelled at the stunning views of Lake Lucerne, the Austrian Tyrol and the pretty villages of the Black Forest; Sylvia’s husband was a talented photographer. Fiona wondered if she and Simon, one day, might embark on such a journey. Foreign travel was becoming more popular now, for those who could afford it. Sylvia was one of the older members, whose two children were both grown up and married. This type of holiday was out of the question for most of the young women, but Sylvia was by no means boastful, and the rest of them showed no envy, only interest and appreciation to Sylvia for her interesting talk.
It turned out to be a happy evening, but Fiona was still aware of a few curious, although not unpleasant, glances in her direction . . . Or was it, once again, her imagination?
Joan had baked the cakes for that evening – the members took it in turns – and whilst they prepared the supper in the kitchen Fiona surprised her friend by saying that she intended to tell the women the truth about the story that was circulating in the parish.
Joan looked at her in some astonishment. ‘Are you sure about this?’ she asked. ‘And is it necessary? Perhaps some of the ladies here tonight have heard about it, but we all know you well enough to sympathize rather than condemn. The fact that they’re here tonight proves it, doesn’t it?’
‘Not everyone’s here,’ answered Fiona. ‘There are four missing, and they’ve never missed before.’
‘Oh well . . . yes, I know, but they are . . . Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but they’ve never really seemed part of it, have they, not like the rest of us?’
‘But I want everyone to feel that they belong. I don’t know why they’ve stayed away, but it seems too much of a coincidence to me. And I have a feeling that the one called Anna lives near Ethel Bayliss. Anyway, I don’t want anyone looking at me curiously all evening, as though they’re trying to assess how I’m feeling. No, Joan, I’m going to take the bull by the horns.’
‘Very well then; you know whatever you do that I’ll be right behind you. You’re a brave lass.’ Joan grinned at her. ‘Coma along then; I’ll carry the tray, and you bring the rest of the stuff in.’
They handed round the cups of tea, small plates and serviettes, and the plate of Joan’s home-made fairy cakes and iced buns. When they were all supplied Fiona broke into the chatter.
‘Listen, ladies, please, if you will . . . I’ve got something to say.’ There was a sudden hush as they all looked at her expectantly. ‘I’m sure you must all have heard . . .’ she began. ‘What I mean is . . . well . . . there’s a story going round the parish about . . . about something that happened to me quite a while ago – fourteen years ago, actually – and . . . I want to put the record straight.’
Some of them looked down at their plates, a little discomfited, but several of the ladies looked her in the eye, nodding and half smiling, all, it seemed, in sympathy with her.
‘I had a baby,’ she said, ‘a baby girl. I was seventeen years old when I discovered I was pregnant.’
‘Well, join the club then!’ said Sandra Jarvis. The women all looked at her, and the ice was broken as they all burst out laughing.
‘Yes, it happened to me an’ all,’ Sandra went on. ‘My mam and dad played hell with me . . . Whoops, sorry!’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘They were very annoyed, I mean, but Gary and me, well, we got married. Then little Gareth came along, then Kim, then Kelly, and Mum and Dad think the world of ’em all now. Sorry, Fiona. I’ve interrupted your story, haven’t I? But I just wanted to say – well – it happens, doesn’t it? And I dare say there might be a few more here who were . . . well . . . not exactly whiter than white when they got married.’
There was a slight ripple of amusement, more subdued this time, and one or two of the women looked down at the floor, a little embarrassed.
‘Well, thank you for that, Sandra,’ said Fiona. ‘Don’t worry about what she’s just said, ladies,’ she added with a sly grin. ‘I’m not going to ask you to put your hands up.’
‘Oh, what a pity!’ said Karen, Sandra’s friend.
‘That’s enough now,’ said Fiona, laughing. ‘To get back to what I was saying . . . I’m aware that people are talking, so I’d like to tell you the truth about it.’ She told them, as briefly as she could, about Dave and the church holiday, the lack of understanding and support from her parents, and her banishment to the home for unmarried mothers.
‘Actually, it wasn’t all that bad,’ she said. ‘You hear such grim tales about such places, but all the staff there were very kind, provided that we toed the line. But it seems that I made an enemy there – as well as a very good friend – and I think she was out to cause trouble for me when she recognized me again, recently. Hence the story, which seems to have circulated like wildfire.’
‘Yes, I must admit I’d heard about it,’ said Gillian.
‘So had I,’ said Sylvia, and a few more nodded in agreement.
‘I’m not going to say who told me, though,’ said Gillian.
‘Nor do I want you to,’ said Fiona. ‘I’m not quite sure what the would-be troublemakers want to happen. Joan thinks – and I’m inclined to agree with her – that they want Simon to be suspicious about me, and to find out, eventually, that his wife has a guilty secret. But, of course, Simon already knows, and I’ve had nothing but love and support from my husband.’ There was no need to tell them that he had only recently found out the truth.
‘That’s no more than we would expect of Simon,’ said Sylvia, ‘and may I say on behalf of everyone here, that our rector has got himself an excellent wife.’
‘Hear, hear . . .’ It seemed to Fiona that all the women were in agreement.
‘And we are all highly delighted about the forthcoming baby,’ added Gillian. ‘That story is far more important to us all.’
‘Thank you, all of you,’ said Fiona, moved almost to tears by the support she was receiving. She blinked and brushed away the incipient moisture in her eyes. ‘Now, I think we’ve said enough on that subject, haven’t we? Just stay and chat, ladies, for as long as you like.’
The gathering broke into three or four little groups chatting together. A few moments later Fiona was surprised to see Ruth Makepeace and her friend, Heather, join herself and Joan on the settee. Ruth, a little self-consciously, bent down and kissed Fiona on the cheek. ‘I admire you so much for saying all that,’ she told her. ‘And . . . for everything. There’s something I want to tell you myself.’
‘Than
k you, Ruth,’ said Fiona, moving along to make room for her. ‘Everyone is being very kind, but it took a lot of courage, I can tell you.’
‘Well, so will this,’ said Ruth quietly. ‘You see, I resented you at first, Fiona, quite a lot. Then when I got to know you better I realized what a good wife you are for Simon. Far better than I would have been . . .’
‘Oh dear!’ said Fiona. ‘You really don’t need to tell me all this, Ruth.’
‘But I do,’ Ruth answered. ‘You see . . . I was a little bit in love with Simon, and I thought – mistakenly – that he might feel the same way about me. I don’t know if you realized . . .’
Fiona laughed, a little embarrassedly. ‘I’m not so green as I’m cabbage looking; That’s something my old gran used to say. Yes, I gather there were a few hopeful ladies in the parish when Simon’s first wife died. And who could blame them? My husband was quite a catch! I couldn’t believe it myself when he asked me to marry him. I’m sorry, Ruth. It must have been awful for you. A newcomer like me, and I know you’d done such a lot to help Simon.’
‘But that was all, wasn’t it? We worked together on committees and things, and I imagined something that wasn’t there. I know Simon’s a clergyman, but he’s a bit of a live wire as well, isn’t he? And you’re so vivacious and outgoing; you’re just right for him. I’m rather quiet, and . . . well, I know now that it wouldn’t have been right.’
‘Go on, tell them the rest of it,’ said her friend, Heather, who, along with Joan, had been listening to the conversation. ‘I know you’re dying to tell them.’
‘Well, I’ve met somebody,’ said Ruth, smiling shyly. ‘We get on well together, and I think . . . well, I know that I love him.’
‘And he loves you too,’ said Heather.
‘Yes, he does,’ said Ruth. ‘In fact we’re getting engaged next week, when it’s my birthday. You’re the first to know, apart from Heather, of course.’
Cast the First Stone Page 26
