by Pam Rhodes
“Neil, darling,” Glenda gushed, “I had no idea you could sing. How wonderful!”
She looked coquettishly up at him through her unnaturally long eyelashes.
“I bet you’re a bass. A man like you would be a bass.” She sniffed delicately as she added, “Peter’s a tenor.”
“OK, choir! It’s gone half past! Let’s get started!”
“Oh my goodness!” wailed Glenda, “I must powder my nose before we start. I came straight from work, you know.”
“Really? Do you work locally?” enquired Neil politely.
“Oh no!” Glenda’s nose creased as if offended by a bad smell. “There’s nothing worth doing here. Dunbridge really doesn’t offer the kind of opportunity that I need to stretch my mind and use all my training and ability. No, I travel into London every morning. Mayfair, that’s where I’m based. I manage the office at a very exclusive fashion house.”
“Gracious! That sounds glamorous.”
“Oh, it is – most definitely!”
“So do you have to go to fashion shows and organize models, things like that?”
“I go everywhere my CEO goes. Roland Branson! You might have heard of him?”
“I have to admit that I’m not very up on the world of fashion, as you might guess if you saw the contents of my wardrobe.”
Glenda looked Neil’s attire up and down, and plainly found it lacking as she nodded in complete agreement. Suddenly, to Neil’s alarm, she reached out to run her hands up and down both sides of his body.
“Turn round!” she commanded. He was too surprised to do anything other than what he was told.
“I could do a lot for you, you know. Your basic body shape isn’t bad. Not good, but I could work with it. You obviously do need a few lessons in fundamental fashion!”
“Well, thank you,” said Neil, stepping back beyond her reach, “but I don’t really need much fashion skill to dress for my job. It comes with a standard uniform, you know…”
“You’d be foolish not to take advantage of the offer. I’ve learned so much from Roland. He’s inspirational. Mind you,” she giggled as she leaned forward to touch Neil’s arm, “he says he’s learning a lot from me too. I’ve worked in the very top echelon of business for years, you know. I bring a lot of experience to the table – and Roland recognizes that.”
“Places please, everyone!”
A dark-haired, bespectacled lady wearing a smart knitted jacket stopped shouting instructions as she suddenly noticed Neil. She put her music down on the stand and moved towards him with a friendly smile of welcome.
“Margaret said you might be popping in tonight. And she said you’ve done a bit of singing in the past.”
“Well, not that much,” grinned Neil sheepishly. “I thought I might just come along and listen this evening, if that’s OK with you.”
“Oh, grab a book and join in!” replied the woman. “If it’s not your cup of tea, you don’t have to come next week. We know you can’t actually join the choir, but to have a minister keen enough to come along and learn parts will go down extremely well with our congregation.”
“Sylvia, are there any more copies of this sheet music?” It was Peter who asked the question.
“Brian’s got some over near the organ, I think. And a few others need copies too, so can you hand them out pronto?”
She turned back to Neil. “Sylvia Lambert, choir leader. My husband Brian is our organist. I’ll introduce you properly later – but for now, it’s really good to have you here. The basses are over there, all two of them! Can you hold a harmony line?”
“Maybe,” said Neil with a wry smile. “We’ll all soon find out, won’t we!”
Before he could move, Sylvia clapped her hands together to get everyone’s attention.
“Listen up, everybody! For those of you who haven’t already met him, this is Neil Fisher, our new curate.”
There was a murmur of approval and greeting around the room, and Neil pinned on his best smile even though he knew his face was reddening with embarrassment.
“As you know, we have a special service for Neil on Sunday to welcome him to the parish – and what could be better than him joining in wholeheartedly with the singing?”
There was a smattering of applause at this suggestion. Sylvia turned to Neil.
“Neil, we do have a couple of pieces in mind which we plan to rehearse tonight – but have you any favourite hymn or anthem you’d particularly like for your special service?”
“Um, well, let me think…”
“Do you prefer traditional hymns – or is your taste more modern than that?”
“Well, honestly, I like both,” mumbled Neil, aware that he was the object of a great deal of speculation and curiosity as he felt twenty pairs of eyes inspect him. “I’m quite fond of Stuart Townend’s work.”
“An excellent choice!” beamed Sylvia. “What’s your favourite?”
Thankfully, Neil had no problem with his answer. “‘In Christ Alone’. The theology is sound, the poetry wonderful – and the music a delight to sing.”
“Perfect!” agreed Sylvia as others nodded in agreement. “We’ll need more than just the organ for that. Music group, can you take your places, please? Oh, Wendy, over here for a minute!”
The girl who started to make her way towards them was a younger, slimmer version of Sylvia. Her shiny dark-brown hair swung freely over her shoulders, and she looked both neat and casual in black trousers and a long, crisp, white blouse over which she wore a pale-pink waistcoat.
“May I introduce my daughter, Wendy?” smiled Sylvia. “She’s the leader of our music group. Wendy has a degree in music, and she teaches at the local school here.”
As Wendy stretched out her hand towards Neil, her eyes sparkled with warmth and interest.
“Welcome, Neil! I hope we’ll be seeing a lot of each other – especially as it seems you enjoy music and singing too.”
Her smile was so engaging, and Neil found himself transfixed by the flash of hazel light in her eyes. What a charming girl!
“Right, everyone,” shouted Sylvia, “let’s get started.”
Friendly hands ushered Neil towards the back row of the right-hand choir stalls where he joined the basses, making them up to a grand total of three voices. Opening up the sheet music before him with some trepidation, he cleared his throat, ready to start.
What he didn’t see was Wendy’s return to sit at the electronic organ to the side of where Sylvia was standing to conduct. Wendy squeezed past Dan on the guitar and her best friend Debs on the flute.
“OK?” asked Debs as she noticed the pink flush across Wendy’s cheeks.
“Oh, I’m fine,” replied Wendy as she took her seat. “In fact, I’m more than fine. I’ve just met the man I’m going to marry!”
And with that, she turned towards her mother, ready to start the intro of “In Christ Alone” the moment the baton was raised.
CHAPTER 5
By the time Neil was singing “In Christ Alone” during his Welcome Service the following Sunday, his mind was almost overwhelmed by all the people he’d been introduced to throughout the week. So many faces – and all those names to remember! He’d taken to carrying around a small notebook in his pocket, so that whenever he was able, he found a quiet moment to jot down the odd name or fact to help him recall all he’d been told.
Slowly, though, faces were becoming familiar to him. He’d now met the other churchwarden, a down-to-earth grandmother called Cynthia Clarkson, who chuckled delightfully as she explained that “everyone calls me Cyn!” She was the matriarch of a Dunbridge dynasty. She’d brought up four children of her own, who had all stayed local enough to provide her with a brood of grandchildren who plainly adored her. Theirs was a staunchly Christian family, and the Clarksons, old and young, filled up more than three rows of pews in the church every Sunday.
He’d seen Harry Holloway several times that week too, but not only at church. It was when Neil was walking back to
Number 96 late one afternoon that he spotted Harry in the front garden of Number 80, doing a bit of obviously skilful pruning in a garden which was a mass of colour from beds, baskets and barrels all overflowing with a profusion of flowering plants.
“My goodness, Harry, you’ve got green fingers! I didn’t even realize we were neighbours. Your garden puts all the others in the shade. It’s a picture!”
“Well,” beamed Harry, who plainly appreciated the compliment, “I’m pretty good with plants. I’m not so good on my pins when it comes to digging and grass-mowing these days, though. My great-niece helps me when she can. She’s a good kid.”
Neil thought how nice it was to hear that a “kid” would take an interest in gardening in order to give her elderly uncle a hand, especially when most youngsters preferred computers for company nowadays.
“I started growing flowers in the garden so that I could give Rose a bunch to put on the sideboard twice a week. Even in the winter, I managed to keep that going.”
“She must have liked that.”
“I hope so,” said Harry wistfully. “She seemed pleased.”
“I’m sure she recognized the love that went into growing them,” added Neil gently.
Harry’s eyes clouded slightly.
“I hope she did. I really do hope so.”
Neil recalled that conversation as he caught Harry’s eye during the singing of “In Christ Alone”. He’d noticed that the older man had sung all the traditional hymns with enthusiasm. This modern song Harry would probably describe as a “happy clappy”, and it was clear from his expression that it really wasn’t quite to his taste. He was determined to give it a try, though, and by the third verse, he was singing along quite competently.
Neil remembered with a mixture of appreciation and horror the way in which Margaret had introduced him to the congregation that morning while she was giving notices before the service began.
“Well, he’s here – at last!”
Her first words were followed by a small cheer and a ripple of friendly applause.
“As you know, this is a busy parish, and we have been in need of extra pair of hands for some time. I am absolutely delighted that Neil Fisher has agreed to join us as our new curate. He’s making himself at home at Number 96, where I am sure the kettle will always be on if you fancy dropping in for a chat and a cuppa.”
Neil felt all eyes in the church on him, but their expressions were kind and interested – from the group of small children who were standing to one side, ready to disappear with the Sunday School teacher (who he understood was called Brenda, although he’d still to meet her properly); to the mums and dads, some of them sitting in the pews alongside their older children; and on to the more elderly congregation members (the ones who would definitely hate “happy clappy”!) looking at him with wary fascination.
“So I’ll be teaching Neil the ropes over the coming year until he is priested – and even after that we hope he will enjoy Dunbridge enough to want to stay on for another two or three years, until he decides he’s ready to take on his own parish.”
There was a general reaction of nodding heads and smiles.
“But Neil is quite capable of speaking for himself, so let me introduce him now – our new curate, Neil Fisher!”
An enthusiastic round of applause rippled around the congregation, as Neil felt blood flush to his cheeks and a trickle of cold sweat course its way down his back. It was the “public speaking” part of his role as a priest that worried him most. Perhaps he was just naturally shy. Perhaps he had been overshadowed and hushed up by his mother for so long that he’d hardly dared venture his own opinion for all too many years. Recognizing, though, that speaking to congregations was very much a part of the role he’d chosen, he steeled himself to move to the centre of the church and smile out at the crowd who were now greeting him in friendly welcome.
“Well,” he began somewhat hesitantly, “thank you for your greeting. I know I’m going to love my time here in Dunbridge. I liked the town from the moment I first saw it, and I’ve enjoyed meeting so many new friends and neighbours here, even in the short time since I arrived. More than that, I recognize that St Stephen’s is the Christian heart of this town, and that the sense of fellowship and care for one another is rich and strong. I look forward to joining your worship. I look forward to supporting and encouraging you in your individual journeys of faith. I look forward to being here for you not just at the important milestones of your lives, but week by week as we praise God together. I know I will learn from you all, and that is a delightful prospect. And yes, whenever I’m at home, the kettle is definitely on, and I’d love visitors. I have a well-stocked biscuit barrel – so please know that you are very welcome.”
With relief, Neil acknowledged that the reaction to his speech was warm with approval. Seeing that a couple of people on the front row were standing up to shake his hand, he quickly rubbed his dripping palms on his surplice as he moved to greet them. It was encouraging to see the wide range of ages and characters who made up the congregation of St Stephen’s. He had a strong sense that this well-established Christian family had a fellowship of genuine care and concern, and a lot going on which brought them into the church not just for services but throughout the week too. Neil saw family groups and couples, and many others too, both elderly and younger, sitting alongside a friend or just peacefully alone. They greeted each other with real affection during the Peace, wandering from their places to shake hands with fellow worshippers right over on the other side of the church. They waited in the middle aisle to let their neighbours out of each pew on their way to take Holy Communion – here and there offering a supporting arm where old age had brought frailty and made walking alone too difficult. As the last communicants were taking bread and wine, and Margaret placed a consecrated wafer into each humbly waiting hand, the music group led the choir gently into “Make Me a Channel of Your Peace”. At that moment, Neil found himself overwhelmed by a warm sense of belonging. This was it! This was his spiritual home for the next few years. This congregation, which was mostly just a group of strangers to him now, would become his Christian family and his good friends. This was why he had longed for ordination. This was what he’d trained for. This was the true start of his ministry – and the emotion of that thought had him dipping into his pocket for his hankie so that he could discreetly give his nose a good blow.
Coffee and biscuits in the church hall after the service proved a noisy, haphazard affair. Neil soon realized that there was no shortage of volunteers to man the teapot and spoon out the coffee. In fact, there were almost too many willing hands! The good-humoured chaos which had everyone snaking down the hall as they queued for a cuppa, was caused by what could best be described as “too many Indians and not enough chiefs”. Not that Neil got anywhere near the queue! He found himself surrounded by groups of people all clamouring to introduce themselves and have a chat with him. After twenty minutes of constantly changing conversation, he looked up to catch Wendy’s eye over the shoulder of the elderly man who was regaling him with the prowess of the Dunbridge Cricket Team.
“Coffee?” she mouthed silently.
He nodded gratefully.
“Milk?” Again, her mouth shaped the question without her actually speaking.
Another nod.
“Sugar?”
He held up one finger.
She winked at him so cheekily that it was hard for him to keep a straight face as the man talking to him went on to discuss in very sombre tones the water-drainage problems of the local cricket pitch. Five more minutes elapsed in which others came up with invitations for him to join the local Amateur Dramatic Group and take up tango lessons – and then he sensed rather than saw Wendy slip a cup of coffee with a couple of ginger biscuits in the saucer on to the table beside him. With a flick of her long dark hair, she turned and moved away, leaving Neil wishing that he’d had a chance to thank her properly for her thoughtfulness.
After the service, Mar
garet and Frank had invited him round for Sunday lunch. He was particularly looking forward to joining them for a proper home-cooked meal because he was quickly discovering that his culinary skills weren’t up to much. Twice that week he had resorted to having a meal in The Wheatsheaf, which on both occasions had led to him spending a couple of pleasant hours playing darts with Graham. On one of the other nights he’d heated up a frozen fish pie in the microwave, but it was so small that, having eaten it, he felt he could devour it again twice over! Next time he must remember to get some frozen vegetables and perhaps potatoes to make the pie go further. He knew he had a lot to learn…
So having gone home to change into “something a little more comfortable” after the service, he worked his way down the garden path of the Vicarage to enter by the kitchen door, as instructed by Margaret. The kitchen looked as muddled as ever, with piles of papers and boxes balanced precariously on every flat surface – and across the room he could just make out the figure of Frank standing at the sink chopping up cabbage.
“Hello, Neil. Mind Archie’s bowl as you come across. I think he’s left another half-eaten mouse beside it. Drives me mad, even though I know it’s the nature of the beast. I have to forgive him because he thinks he’s bringing us a loving gift.”
As Neil bent down to pick up the mutilated mouse, he came eyeball to eyeball with Archie, who was sitting under the table, his yellow eyes narrowed and staring with malice. Neil dropped the mouse instantly, stood up very slowly, then backed away as fast as he could.
“Something smells good!”
Margaret came striding into the room, touching Neil’s shoulder in greeting as she went over to join Frank at the sink.
“Can you chop that a bit smaller, dear? And don’t forget to cut all the stalk out. You usually leave far too much on.”
Frank carried on chopping without comment.
“Have you made the Yorkshires yet?” asked Margaret.
“Pudding mix is in the bowl. The tray is ready and heating in the oven. Dinner should be on course for half an hour’s time,” said Frank, glancing up at the clock, which hung at a slightly skewed angle above the mantelpiece.
