Fisher of Men

by Pam Rhodes

“Of course! I wouldn’t think of dragging anyone else to the pits of Bedfordshire. Besides, I won’t be alone once you get there.”

  “And how long are you thinking of staying?”

  He held his breath as, with a sense of dread, he anticipated her answer.

  “Oh, not a moment longer than I have to!”

  Neil let out a silent sigh of relief.

  “I’ll stay with you on Saturday night and travel back on Sunday morning.”

  “That will be lovely, Mum – although of course, I won’t be able to take you back to Paddington on Sunday morning.”

  “Why ever not? That’s the most convenient train, and I don’t want to be travelling after dark.”

  “I know the nights are drawing in, but it’s still light until seven o’clock at least. But the reason that time is difficult for me is that I have two services on Sunday morning.”

  “Can’t the Vicar do them?”

  “She does really, because I’m still a deacon until next July when I’m priested, so I can’t take the Eucharist service completely on my own yet.”

  “Good. Then you can take me to the station.”

  “No, Mum. It’s my duty to be there. I’m the curate. Besides, It’s more than a duty, it’s a devotion that’s important to me.”

  “Huh!” she snorted. “Well, I suppose it would be interesting to see you in action. I wouldn’t mind having a word with that vicar of yours while I’m there. A woman, you say?”

  It was clear from her tone that it wasn’t only doctors and newsreaders who, in her opinion, should only ever be men.

  “Margaret is an excellent priest, and I’m sure she and Frank will make you very welcome.”

  “Well,” she said in a way that made it clear she was very put out, “my train gets into Paddington at noon sharp. Be at the end of the platform so I can see you clearly.”

  “That will be lovely – and you’ve picked an interesting day to come. We’ve got the Harvest Supper in the church hall that evening.”

  “Supper?”

  “Yes, the ladies of the parish have been planning the menu for weeks – home-grown vegetable soup, lasagne and salad, and a selection of fresh-fruit puddings.”

  “Well, I have to say that sounds a great deal better than anything you might cook for me, Neil. I agree to go.”

  “Thank you,” said Neil, hoping he sounded suitably grateful when actually he was appalled at the thought of his mother let loose among the congregation he was still trying to impress.

  “Right, must rush. I’m due at the Bridge Club. Till next Saturday then, twelve o’clock sharp! Don’t be late!”

  “Looking forward to it!” he lied – but he spoke to the dialling tone because she had already hung up on him.

  He leaned back against the sideboard drained, mulling over the thought of his mother being here next weekend. It would be appalling. She would embarrass him in every possible way.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the window-pane. The sight of Claire trying to catch his attention certainly lightened his mood, and he went immediately to open the front door.

  “Mowing my lawn, eh? Have you run out of gardens to work in?”

  “Well, apparently you haven’t been doing much mowing yourself – or dead-heading or pruning…”

  “Now you’re talking technical! I own up to a complete ignorance of anything that’s needed in the garden – except a deckchair and a cool beer, I suppose.”

  She laughed. “Cyn and Peter both thought you might need a hand – and this is church property, after all.”

  “Thank God for our very thoughtful churchwardens!” smiled Neil. He thought how pretty she looked, even though her cropped hair was definitely doing its own thing and her skin was flushed with exertion.

  “Fancy a cold drink? I’ve even got some ice cubes, I think.”

  “You’re a life-saver – but I can’t stay long. I have to be in Maple Avenue by four.”

  “Another lawn to mow?”

  “Much bigger than this one, so it will take me at least three hours. I’d like to get it done before the light goes.”

  Neil considered her slight build having to cope with the heavy-duty work she was called upon to do.

  “You must be exhausted by the end of each working day.”

  She laughed. “Not by the gardening. I really love it. I turn on my iPod, plug in my earphones and get lost in a world of my own. It’s quite relaxing, really – certainly compared to looking after Sam when I do get home in the evening. Harry is wonderful, of course. He still loves cooking, and often he’s got a meal organized for us all by the time I get back – but I do worry about him doing too much. He’s been like a father to me. Sam even calls him Grandad!”

  “He does seem to be a very special and caring man.”

  “He is. What about you? Are you close to your Dad?”

  “I was, very. He died almost sixteen years ago now. I’m probably quite a chip off the old block. I’d like to think so, anyway.”

  “And your Mum?”

  He groaned. “Ooh, my Mum. That was her who just rang. She’s planning to visit next weekend.”

  “That will be nice…”

  She stopped as she saw his pained expression.

  “Or perhaps not so nice?” she finished.

  “The thought of her being here fills me with horror. To say she’s overbearing is an understatement. In fact, she’s more like a steam-roller, and I always seem to end up deflated, flattened – in fact, well and truly squashed by her!”

  “Is she still a widow, or has she married again?”

  “Marry! Who’d have her? I can’t imagine why Dad asked her in the first place, although I’m glad he did, of course – for me, if not for him!”

  “What do your brothers and sisters think?”

  “Only child, I’m afraid. Nowhere to hide. No one else to take the flak along with me.”

  “She’s probably just being protective of her baby boy.”

  “Over-protective, you mean. Dominating. Interfering. Opinionated. Bigoted. Selfish. Hypochondriac. Do you get the picture?”

  “But you’ve escaped! You must have been at college for what, three years? And now you’re here, you’re not in reach of her tentacles any more.”

  “Don’t you believe it! She rings most days, although I try only to answer one day in three. She may live a hundred miles away, but she would still like to know exactly what I’m eating, who my friends are, whether I’m up to date with the housework and if my vest’s tucked in!”

  Claire giggled. “And now she plans to visit Dunbridge?”

  “She’s arriving next Saturday morning and staying until Sunday afternoon.”

  “Not too long, then.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “Well, what damage could she really do? Who is she likely to meet?”

  “Everyone. I’ll have to take her to the Harvest Supper on Saturday night.”

  “And church the next morning?”

  “Not that she’s really interested in the service. She’ll just want to weigh everyone up and find them lacking. She’s making vague threats about having a meaningful chat with Margaret…”

  “I pity your Mum. Margaret is capable of wiping the floor with anyone – nicely, of course, but she doesn’t put up with any nonsense. That’s one of the things I like most about her.”

  Neil sighed.

  “I just don’t want Mum to hurt anyone’s feelings. I don’t want her to look around Dunbridge and complain about everything she sees. And I don’t want her to talk about me to anyone. In fact, I don’t want her to talk at all – especially not to me!”

  “Have you ever told her how you feel?”

  “Couldn’t get a word in edgeways. No point even trying.”

  “Come on, Neil, you are a professional listener – and a pretty good talker too, if what I’ve seen is anything to judge by. You must be able to sit her down and let her see that her little boy is a grown man who is re
spected for doing a good job around here.”

  “I am? Do you really think so? I still feel I’m such a beginner…”

  “Now you’re fishing for compliments! I’ve not seen much of you at work in the church, of course…”

  “You never come. Why is that?”

  “I don’t believe in God. Seems like a stupid idea to me.”

  “Oh,” said Neil, taken back by her bluntness.

  “Does that mean you’ll take back your offer of a cold drink? Do you serve atheists?”

  He laughed. “I serve all of God’s children. Come through and I’ll sort it out.”

  She looked down at her muddy boots.

  “I’ll see you round at the back door, then.”

  Minutes later, she downed a pint of iced orange squash without stopping once.

  “Thanks,” she smiled, handing back the glass. “I can return the compliment on Saturday night.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Harvest Supper is made from local ingredients – in other words, the vegetables I’ve grown in various gardens belonging to congregation members. I’d love to see whether my veg goes down well, so although I’m not doing the cooking, I’ve said I’ll help out as a waitress, serving drinks and things.”

  “Then you will have the pleasure of meeting my mother.”

  “I certainly will,” she agreed. “I’ll make a point of it.”

  “Here you are, Neil, a job for you. Could you pop over this morning to see Mrs Davis – the address is on the card. Her husband, George, died at the weekend and she’s booked a service for him next Tuesday at the crematorium. She’s made it pretty clear that, in her opinion, such an occasion should be led by a man – and you’re the nearest thing we’ve got to that! Anyway, it will be my day off, and you are quite confident leading funerals now, so it’s good for you to get the experience of doing some on your own. I’m here if you need to ask about anything.”

  “Thanks Margaret,” grinned Neil. He looked down at the note. “Joan Davis, 14 Keats Avenue. And the appointment is at eleven.” He glanced at his watch. “Heavens, I’d better get going!”

  Keats Avenue was on the relatively recently built Poets Estate, so called because all the roads were named after famous British wordsmiths. Neil turned down Yeats Drive, went left into Wordsworth Lane and found Keats Avenue not far up on the right-hand side. Number 14 was a typical modern three-bedroom detached house with an integral garage and neat box hedging surrounding a tidy cropped lawn. Neil rang the bell and waited, gazing down at two stone lions who sat, like guarding soldiers, on either side of the door, which was promptly opened by a thirty-something young woman with a row of rings of various sizes in each ear, and a tattoo on her wrist as she stretched her hand out to welcome him.

  “Mum’s in the living room. Go on in. Tea?”

  “Coffee, white, one sugar please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Neil found Joan Davis sitting in a wide, comfy armchair which was covered in a large, flowery print. She wore a cardigan embroidered with a row of brightly coloured flowers, and a skirt which was a mass of blue and gold blooms. It was difficult to tell where her skirt stopped and the chair cover started so that, all in all, the effect was of one great big bouquet. She didn’t get up, but held her hand out to him with a forlorn expression on her face.

  “Thank you for coming, Vicar. Excuse me for not getting up. It’s the shock, you know. It’s knocked me for six.”

  Neil settled himself on the sofa opposite her, opening his briefcase as he said, “I am so sorry to hear about your loss, Mrs Davis. Had George been ill for long?”

  “No,” she replied. “He’d always been a very fit man – got a lot of exercise, you see. His heart attack just came out of the blue. It was a great shock for everyone.”

  The girl with the earrings came in then carrying a tray on which tea and coffee was served in flowery china mugs, alongside a plate of neatly arranged shortbread fingers.

  “This is my daughter, Tracey.”

  “We’ve met. Thank you for the coffee, Tracey. I’m sorry to be meeting you under such sad circumstances.”

  She shrugged. “These things happen.” She glanced towards her mother. “We’ll cope.”

  “And are you George’s only daughter?” Neil asked. As Joan started to reply, she was interrupted by a coughing fit which suddenly afflicted Tracey.

  “Sorry,” she said, her face red as she tried to clear her throat. “I’ve had a cold.”

  Neil smiled sympathetically, and took out his pen, ready to take notes on their conversation.

  “Tracey’s my youngest,” Joan began again. “Then there’s Shane. He’s with his partner, Kylie, and they’ve got a couple of youngsters of their own now. He’s done well for himself. Got his own tyre centre on the London Road. Do you know it?”

  “Oh yes! That’s your son, is it?” replied Neil, hoping that his lack of familiarity with the area didn’t show too much. “And no other children? Well, let me take down a few details about George, just so that I’ve got a clear picture of him. Have you got plans for any members of the family or perhaps old friends to pay a tribute to him during the service?”

  “We would prefer you do it. We’ll be much too emotional to say anything on the day,” said Tracey.

  “Of course,” said Neil, pen poised above his pad. “Let’s start with some general notes about his life and achievements.”

  Neil scribbled like mad for the next twenty minutes as George’s life story unfolded. He had worked for a local manufacturer most of his life, finally reaching the grade of foreman of the factory. His seemed to have been a simple life. He played football for the local town team as a young man, although when his son Shane came along, he continued his interest from the sideline where he loved to cheer his son on. As a member of the local Working Men’s Club, he was Captain of the Darts Team, which had enjoyed a measure of success each year in the county league championships. He’d apparently enjoyed DIY projects too, like woodwork and decorating.

  “Right,” said Tracey, suddenly very business-like. “We’ve put together a few notes too. There are some things we definitely want said about him. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t change the wording of this bit. Just read it as it is here. Is that all right?”

  “Of course,” agreed Neil, glancing down at the sheet. He could immediately see phrases like “good with his hands”, “a lover not a fighter”, “he enjoyed mixing with people in all walks of life”, “loved by one and all”, “always ready to help out a neighbour”.

  “This is excellent,” he commented, as he flattened the sheet tidily into his pad. “Now what about hymns? Have you thought of any favourites that might be appropriate?”

  Mother and daughter looked at each other for a moment, before Joan said, “We’ve come up with a couple. ‘He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands’ – that was one he liked. And there’s another old one we think is appropriate – ‘Who Would True Valour See’. Do you know it?”

  “The one based on the words of John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, you mean? Yes, I know it. Mind you, most people sing the more modern version of that nowadays – ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’. The words are a little less archaic.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The old version has a line about ‘hobgoblins’ and ‘foul fiends’.”

  “That’s the one we want.”

  “Really?”

  “Dad sang it when he was at school,” was Tracey’s quick reply. “That’s how he remembered it, so that’s how we’d like to remember him.”

  “And there’s a piece of music we think should be played as the curtain closes,” said Joan. “It’s an old hymn called ‘Seeds of Love’. Have you heard of it?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Well, we’ll bring a recording. And we’ve chosen a couple of tracks for him, one for when he comes in, and another for when we all leave. We’ll put them on the CD too.”

  “OK,” said Neil, “just giv
e that to the undertaker some time before the service, and they’ll organize everything according to your instructions. Now, there are just a few more points I need to check…”

  Several minutes were spent sorting out the details of the undertaker, the time of arrival and the arrangements for flowers. After that, Neil gathered together his things, and stood to say goodbye to Joan and Tracey.

  “It’s important to us,” said Joan, looking directly into his eyes as if to make sure he heard every word, “that everything is exactly as we’d like it. We want to get it right, and make sure he gets the send-off he deserves.”

  “Of course,” agreed Neil. “And I wonder if you would like us to share a prayer before I leave?”

  “Probably not,” was Tracey’s immediate reply. “Mum’s getting tired. Shall I show you out?”

  And as Neil found himself bundled out the front door, he mused on the fact that bereavement affected everyone in their own individual way. This family was grieving, no doubt about that – and as he drove off, he said a silent prayer for them anyway.

  “It’s a bit of a box.”

  Neil’s mother twitched her nose dismissively as she looked around his home.

  “I like it. It’s not too big to keep tidy, but large enough to fit in everything I need.”

  She wandered through the lounge and then into the kitchen.

  “Who chose the decor? Not you, I hope!”

  “The churchwardens, I suppose. It was all newly decorated when I got here.”

  “They were preparing your new home ready for your arrival, but they didn’t think to ask you about your choice of colour scheme?”

  “I like the colour scheme.”

  “Of course you don’t, Neil. No one could like a house where every room is in varying shades of putty!”

  “It’s beige – and I like it. I find it restful.”

  “I find it boring,” she retorted as she peered out at the garden through the window of the back door.

  “The garden’s a bit small.”

  “I’m a curate, not a gardener. If I had no garden at all, I’d be quite happy.”

  Neil followed as his mother let herself out the back door so that she could inspect the offending garden in closer detail.