Fisher of Men

by Pam Rhodes

  “Did you know that Wendy made these pavlovas?” asked Iris as he pulled out his chair to sit down.

  Neil looked admiringly at the shiny pink meringue topped with raspberries and whipped cream, then turned to smile at Wendy.

  “Heavens! Where do you begin making a masterpiece like that? They’re magnificent! I had no idea you enjoyed cooking so much.”

  Plainly pleased at the praise, Wendy’s cheeks flushed prettily. “Oh, they’re not as hard as they look – and I’ve always loved baking. I’ve been on a few cordon bleu courses in London.”

  “I can see that!” enthused Neil. “You are plainly very talented – and not just at cooking. You’ll be hearing Wendy playing with the music group after supper, Mum.”

  “So she was telling me,” beamed Iris. “I’m looking forward to that.”

  At that moment, another parishioner, who was on the opposite side of their table, claimed Neil’s attention. Seconds later, Wendy felt a touch on her left arm as her best friend, Debs, who was sitting beside her, leaned closer to whisper in her ear.

  “What’s that they say about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach?”

  With a smile, Wendy’s head bent towards her friend so that no one could overhear their conversation.

  “That’s very true,” she agreed, “but I also think that the way to this man’s heart may be through his Mum!”

  Debs laughed as Wendy turned back towards Neil and Iris.

  “Oh, I see the coffee’s arrived,” said Wendy. “Shall I be mother?”

  Thankfully, apart from saying how much she’d enjoyed the Harvest gathering, Iris was quite reserved in her opinions about the Dunbridge church community when they got home that night. Neil realized with some surprise that the evening had tired her out. She had always been a larger-than-life presence for him, determined to control his every action and decision. He just assumed she was, and always would be, full of energy, and yet the weariness in her face showed plainly as she said goodnight. She’d never admit to being sixty-six years old, but Neil thought for the first time that she was beginning to look her age. That shocked him. Malevolent she may often be towards him, but he couldn’t imagine a world without his mother in it. With unexpected fondness, he hugged her as he wished her sweet dreams. She looked as surprised as he felt, and they both stepped back from the embrace, slightly embarrassed by the unusual show of emotion.

  She looked a lot brighter the next morning as she made her way into church for the Harvest Festival Family Eucharist. Neil had left much earlier that morning to take part in the first service of the day and, ever the gentleman, Harry once again stepped into the role of companion for Iris, arriving to accompany her to the later service in good time for its 9.30 start. The church looked wonderful – a feast of orange and gold. Window-ledges, pillars and archways were decked with boughs of autumn leaves, and heaps of grasses and sheaves of corn combined with gleaming fruits and nuts to fill every corner with colourful displays. The overall effect was warm and welcoming, and Iris seemed charmed by what she saw as she made her way down the centre aisle, chatting cheerily to people she’d met the evening before with responses which ranged from a majestic nod of the head to a gracious shaking of hands. The warmest greeting was reserved for Wendy, and Neil watched in amazement as the two women hugged each other fondly. Mind you, he thought, Wendy had such a friendly, positive personality that no one could fail to be drawn to her – even his mother!

  He was nervous that morning. The wording and flow of the service was second nature to him – but his mother’s presence tied his stomach in knots, just as it had throughout most of his life. In Dunbridge he was his own man, respected and accepted because of his contribution and ability. Iris being here complicated all that. He was right to be nervous. Intuitive as ever, Margaret recognized his reaction straight away as they walked towards the vestry to join the choir for a few moments of prayer before the start of the service. Wordlessly, and with complete empathy, she squeezed his arm. She understood – and he was glad.

  In fact, the service went seamlessly, as everyone joined in the traditional Harvest hymns with gusto, and felt their hearts warmed by the sight of the children – some still in their parents’ arms – taking their contributions of tins, packets and home-grown produce up to the altar to be blessed, before it was distributed to where it was needed most in the local community. To the strains of “We Plough the Fields and Scatter”, the clergy and choir proceeded down the aisle and back into the vestry, where they quickly de-robed, ready to join the rest of the congregation who had gathered in the church hall for coffee.

  Neil found himself looking around fondly at this motley collection of people who were becoming so dear to him. From the elderly ladies who sat chatting at the edge of the hall to the youngsters who darted around dodging coffee cups, grown-ups’ feet and their parents’ disapproving looks, he was beginning to feel part of them all. One after another, members of the congregation came up to chat to him – and for Neil, an only child who had often felt very alone in a home dominated by someone like Iris, this new experience was a revelation. It felt almost as if he was beginning to belong to a warm-hearted, extended family who welcomed him with open arms and caring friendship.

  Listening to a funny story told by Barbara, who ran the playgroup, he noticed his mother in deep conversation with Frank on the other side of the hall. Well, that’s good, he thought. In his role of “Vicar’s right-hand man”, Frank was likely to give a good account of Neil’s contribution to the parish. Certainly, his mother seemed very interested in what Frank had to say, and although Neil was consumed with curiosity to know what they were discussing, his attention was claimed by one of the mums who regularly helped out at the playgroup, so it just wasn’t possible to get across to join his mother, even if his instinct told him that damage-limitation was probably needed.

  In fact, Iris seemed uncharacteristically quiet and thoughtful as they made their way back to his house after the service. They weren’t planning to stay long, as her train from Paddington left in just over two hours. Her bag was packed and ready at the front door, so they were in the car and on their way down the A1 towards London within a quarter of an hour of leaving the church. Her unnatural quietness unnerved him, so Neil held his breath, waiting for the comments that were sure to come. In the end, only ten minutes or so from Paddington Station, she finally spoke.

  “How much longer will you be a curate?”

  “The rest of this year, then at least two more years after that.”

  “And you plan to stay in Dumbridge?”

  “Dunbridge!” he corrected. “Yes, I’d like to.”

  Seconds of silence ticked by.

  “I approve,” she said eventually.

  Neil almost smiled, but his expression was more of surprise.

  “You do?”

  “But you have to make the most of your time here – pack in as much experience as you can, do a bit more studying, get involved in eye-catching projects, make sure you’re noticed…”

  “By whom?”

  “Everyone who matters. Have you met the Bishop yet?”

  “Briefly.”

  “And have you followed up the contact?”

  “I’m just a curate, Mum. I’ve still got a lot to learn.”

  “Yes, you have to learn. You also have to impress. Use your initiative. Come up with your own ideas…”

  “Why? I’ll just come across as pushy, and that’s really not me.”

  “Make it you! Frank was telling me that, above all, Anglican bishops have to be good businessmen these days. You spent that year working in the accounting firm your father started. With that background, you are just what the church needs…”

  “Mum, stop! I didn’t apply for ordination because I am interested in business. This is a spiritual journey for me…”

  “Fine. That’s all well and good, but God also gave you talents, didn’t he? Isn’t that what you believe?”

  “Of course, but�
��”

  “Well, use them! You are good at figures and paperwork. Make yourself useful. Move up this organization as fast as you can. Take every chance you can get.”

  Neil sighed, knowing that reply, let alone argument, would be completely useless.

  “And another thing…”

  Neil kept his eyes on the road, not bothering to look in her direction to find out what other pearls of wisdom she was going to impart.

  “That nice girl, Wendy – do you know what her father does?”

  “Yes. He plays the organ at St Stephen’s.”

  “That’s his hobby. It’s his job that’s really interesting.”

  Iris seemed oblivious to the deliberately bored expression on Neil’s face.

  “He’s an accountant! He has his own highly successful business.”

  “And?”

  “And your father was an accountant with his own extremely successful business too.”

  “Why should that matter?”

  “You and Wendy have so much in common! And she’s such a clever girl herself – extremely talented too, when you consider the first-class honours degree she has in music.”

  “Stop it, Mum!”

  “She’s a teacher, so she plainly loves children…”

  “Mum, please just stop thinking that putting two and two together makes a couple.”

  “And she can cook.”

  He turned angrily towards her then.

  “So can I!”

  Iris spluttered in amused disbelief.

  “She’s a cordon bleu chef!”

  “And I’m a very straightforward guy who enjoys simple food.”

  “That’s right!” Iris was triumphant. “Simple food – simple man! Wake up and smell the coffee, Neil!”

  “Which means what?”

  Her expression became suspiciously warm and caring.

  “You’re twenty-six years old, Neil. I won’t be here to look after you for ever! You’ve got to sort yourself out and settle down some time.”

  “And you think Wendy would be…”

  “… the perfect partner for you!” Iris sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes with exasperation. “At last! Simple you may be – but the penny’s dropped at last!”

  CHAPTER 9

  The driveway up to the crematorium was lined on both sides by banks of flowerbeds, mostly faded now with the autumnal nip in the air. There was obviously a service already taking place, as Neil had difficulty finding a corner in the packed car park, but as he walked towards the chapel, he saw that quite a few people were already gathering outside the entrance in good time for the service for George Davis. Neil slipped in by the side door, and went into the room where he could robe up and sit for a few minutes going over his notes. During the first few months of being in Dunbridge, Neil had simply observed Margaret as she took the services. Later, she’d been at his side to supervise as he led the proceedings. Now, she had enough confidence in him to let him lead cremation services himself. This would be his fourth, and he still couldn’t help feeling that Margaret had more confidence in his ability than he had. Margaret had drummed into him that to the bereaved family and friends, it was the detail that mattered most of all – getting the facts and figures of the life story correct, and being able to talk about their personality and achievements with a sensitivity that suggested the minister had known the departed well.

  With that in mind, Neil glanced down at the paragraphs given to him by George’s widow, Joan, and their daughter Tracey. The two women had been adamant that he should read this piece exactly as they’d written it. Mindful of Margaret’s instruction that it was essential to get every detail right for grieving relatives, Neil felt his stomach knot with anxiety. It occurred to him – not for the first time – that a man who had chosen a vocation which involved constant public speaking should surely feel more at ease when speaking to any gathering. On the contrary, just the thought of having to make a speech at a function like this, where accuracy and sensitivity were of utmost importance, simply filled him with dread. His mouth was dry, his palms clammy, and his hands shook so much that he could hardly read his notes.

  He became aware of voices beyond the frosted window, so he could tell that the previous service had ended as the mourners now moved into the Garden of Remembrance to look at the floral tributes. That was his cue to go into the chapel to find Clifford sitting at the organ, which was tucked just behind the curtain on the opposite side to the minister’s lectern so that he could always see exactly what was needed and when. Clifford greeted Neil with his customary theatrical kiss on both cheeks. He was a very gifted musician who, at the height of his career, had conducted a string of West End musicals. Latterly, he divided his time between playing keyboard at end-of-pier summer seasons and pantomimes, and being pianist at the rehearsals and performances of several local amateur operatic societies and dance classes. In addition, he made a tidy packet each week by providing the music at crematorium services. In fact, he not only played the organ. He also played the part perfectly. His camp banter and risqué comments could cause offence, but Clifford was wise enough to know when to change his expression to one of sad, respectful grief.

  “Odd choice of hymns and music,” he said, looking down at the list Tracey had given him. “Family favourites, so his daughter told me.”

  Neil nodded. “Have you got the CD with the tracks we need as he first comes in, and then when the congregation leaves? And they’ve chosen a recording of a very old hymn for when the curtains close on the coffin.”

  “‘Seeds of Love’,” read Clifford from the CD cover. “Never heard of it.”

  “Nor me, but they are really adamant that’s what they want.”

  “OK, sweetie, they’ll be coming in soon, by the look of it. See you at the other end!”

  Neil made his way down the centre of the chapel, which was already quite full of mourners who had taken their seats on either side of the aisle. He carried on through the main door of the chapel so that he could join the small group of mostly family members who were waiting in the porch area to see the hearse make its stately way up the drive to stop in front of the door. He stood beside Joan, Tracey and her brother, Shane, as they watched the bearers take the coffin from the hearse and lift it on to their shoulders. Neil knew that Clifford would take his cue to start the first recording on the CD when he caught sight of Neil taking up his position just in front of the casket. Neil checked to see that his microphone was switched on, then started with these immortal words from John’s Gospel to introduce the service:

  “‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ says the Lord. ‘Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.’”

  And with that, Neil set off at a sombre pace to lead the procession down the centre aisle – when suddenly the chapel was filled with music that stopped him dead in his tracks – the opening lines of Tom Jones’s hit, “Sex Bomb”.

  To his astonishment, Neil saw that the expressions on the faces of this congregation of mourners were not at all what he would expect at an occasion like this. Although most of them had their heads down, some were plainly struggling to keep a straight face. They whispered and giggled as the pall-bearers made their slow way down the aisle until they could ceremoniously place the coffin at the front of the chapel, bow their heads and disappear out of a side door. Neil arranged his notes on the lectern, looking out with some trepidation at the congregation who were obviously enjoying and even mouthing the lyrics of the well-known, if totally inappropriate, pop song.

  Even George’s widow, Joan, was enjoying the music. George must have been a remarkable man, thought Neil, to make people smile just at the thought of him, even after he’d gone! Waiting until the strains of the song had finally faded, Neil continued.

  “We brought nothing into the world, and we take nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  Hoping that he didn’t
look as nonplussed as he felt, Neil carried on.

  “We have come here today to remember before God our brother George Arthur Davis; to give thanks for his life; to commend him to God our merciful redeemer and judge; to commit his body to be cremated, and to comfort one another in our grief. Lord, look with compassion on your children in their loss; give to troubled hearts the light of hope and strengthen us in the gift of faith, in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  Neil saw with some relief that the mood of the congregation had sobered at these words. Reading carefully from the notes given to him by Tracey and Joan, he went on.

  “George’s family have specially requested the first hymn, because they feel it sums up his warm-hearted attitude to his friends and neighbours. You’ll find the words in the Order of Service.”

  Knowing that often people find it very hard to sing at funeral services, Neil waited until Clifford had played the introduction before launching loudly into song, in the hope that he was giving a strong melody line which the congregation could follow. Two lines in, Neil realized that he was practically singing a solo. The amusement that had greeted the first piece of music bubbled around the crowd again as the hymn began: