That was until he walked into the parlour one afternoon when Violet was out visiting Mrs Bird, and stopped in his tracks at what he saw. Grace was parading in front of the mirror, wearing her mother’s best hat trimmed with silk roses and an ostrich feather; she gestured with Isabel’s parasol and winked as she sang to an imaginary audience.
‘If I show my shape just a little bit –
Just a little bit, not too much of it –
If I show my shape just a little bit,
It’s the little bit the boys admire!’
The song was cut short as Grace became aware of her father’s reflection in the mirror, standing behind her. She spun round to face him, her dark eyes pleading.
‘I just found this copy o’ Marie Lloyd’s songs, Daddy, and thought I’d try to sing—’
‘Hand me that rubbish at once, my girl,’ he ordered sternly, taking up the sheaf of music that lay on a bookshelf. ‘And get those clothes o’ your mother’s back into her wardrobe straight away, before she gets in.’
‘Yes, Daddy, o’ course, Daddy, I’m sorry, I was only trying to…’ Grace began, putting down the parasol and taking off the hat in preparation for another angry reprimand and no doubt punishment from her father.
But Tom Munday did not feel equal to a confrontation just then, and having confiscated the Marie Lloyd songbook, he dismissed Grace without another word. He decided against telling Violet, it would only kick up a further rumpus. But he wondered, like Miss Daniells, what the world was coming to.
On the fourth Sunday of each month, the morning service at St Peter’s was followed by the sacrament of Holy Communion to those members of the congregation who wished to receive it. Mrs Munday decided that it was a good time for the whole family to partake of it, Grace having been confirmed at Easter; both she and Ernest might obtain benefit from it, their mother thought. Accordingly they all stayed behind and moved up to the altar rail where they knelt with about a score of others while the Rev. Mr Saville recited the prayer of consecration, and the bread and wine having been blessed as representing Christ’s body and blood, he moved along the line of communicants, administering a small cube of bread into the cupped hands of each, uttering the traditional words over them. He was followed by Mr Storey, holding the chalice from which each communicant took a sip of wine. Ernest said his ‘Amen’ with fervour, for his thoughts were in such a turmoil of anxiety that he did not notice the slight disturbance when the curate moved on to Isabel who knelt next to him. His college days were over, and he was qualified and unemployed. What was he to do? His mother was now advising him to take any job on offer, no matter how menial, while waiting for something better to come up. For instance, Mr Graves needed somebody to keep a watchful eye on his coal yard, and deal with the orders that came in to his grimy little office. Ernest shuddered, but now was no time to be choosy; he would go and see Mr Graves tomorrow.
Meanwhile it was a hot August day, and after the usual Sunday roast dinner, Ernest walked to the Bible study group at Mr Woodman’s. Should he ask them to pray for him at some point? To pray that he might be shown the path he was to take, both now and in the future?
When the Reverend Paul Woodman opened the door to him, Ernest felt his heart leap at the sight of his mentor, the young man for whom he’d felt such gratitude and affection as a boy. He knew that Paul, now in his late twenties, was an ordained Methodist minister, and that he had married; could there still be the old special understanding between them?
‘Ernest!’ cried Paul, taking his hand and shaking it warmly. ‘How good to see you! I’m visiting my parents – it’s my mother’s birthday, so I’ve come over with Rachael and our little daughter. You must meet them. But how are you, old chap? And what are you doing now?’
Before Ernest could answer, Mr Woodman came into the hall. ‘Come in, Ernest, come in!’ he beamed. ‘We shall be holding our study group this afternoon as usual, but with the pleasure of having Paul with us. It will be just like old times!’
But not quite, thought Ernest, putting on a cordial expression and saying how happy he was to meet Rachael, a dark-haired young woman who greeted him with sharply observant eyes. A little girl of about two clung to her mother’s skirts and hid her face in their folds when Ernest awkwardly bent over to speak to her.
‘Rachael is not from a Christian family, but praise be to God, she has accepted Christ as her Saviour,’ said Paul, looking tenderly at her. ‘Lucy has been baptised in the faith, and we pray constantly that Mr and Mrs Schelling and Rachael’s brothers and sisters be brought to the foot of the Cross in the course of time.’
Ernest nodded, wondering if Rachael was a Roman Catholic; but no, they called themselves Christians, even though sadly misguided.
‘You may possibly meet some of them soon, Ernest, because Rachael’s uncle and another relative—’
‘His sister’s son, Aaron,’ Rachael put in.
‘That’s right, her uncle and his nephew, they’ve left London and have come to start up a business in Everham,’ continued Paul. ‘They’ve been working for an insurance firm in the city, but Mr Schelling feels that the time has come for him to start his own business. He’s bought up the old bakehouse at the end of the high street, and is having it turned into an office. They’ll deal with house and fire insurance, and expect to do quite well with the farmers.’
‘They’ll be known as Schelling and Pascoe,’ said Rachael with a little nod.
‘Yes, and all they need now is staff – reliable trained staff with good accountancy skills and some knowledge of German, if that’s possible, as Mr Pascoe has recently come over from Germany and isn’t very fluent in English yet,’ explained Paul. ‘Father says it’s asking rather a lot in a place like Everham, but Mr Schelling will offer a very good salary to the right—er, I say, Ernest old chap, are you all right? Your jaw has dropped nearly to the floor!’
Ernest nodded but could not trust himself to speak, so full was he of incredulous amazement. He had come to Mr Woodman’s Bible study group that afternoon with the intention of asking for prayer that he might be shown the way forward in his life and work. And it seemed that his prayer had been answered, even before it had been offered up.
Having administered the chalice to Ernest, Mr Storey turned next to the beautiful young girl who had so captured his heart. His hands had begun to shake as he held the cup and the square of white linen used to wipe the rim between each partaker. A priest is instructed to look straight into the eyes of the communicant as he murmurs the time-honoured exhortation, but Mark’s throat was suddenly constricted and speech deserted him. Not only his hands shook, but he trembled from head to foot, almost spilling the wine, as he stood before the girl who filled his waking thoughts and haunted his dreams; only he – and he presumed God – knew of the times when he had given way to unlawful thoughts of her, and now here she knelt before him in all her purity and innocence. He could not look into those clear blue eyes; his head bowed over the chalice and he feared he was about to disgrace himself and his office in front of her and her family and everybody present. Mr Saville was looking at him in frowning concern: what could he do? Oh, merciful God, what was he to do?
Then Isabel Munday lifted her head, a sweet smile on her lips as she held out her hands to take hold of the chalice; and he found himself answering her in the words he had been saying to each communicant.
‘The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life…’
She took the chalice between her hands, and their fingers briefly touched.
‘Amen,’ she replied, and he passed on to Grace who had not missed a moment of this little scene acted out beside her.
On the way home Mrs Munday remarked that the curate had not looked well.
‘Did you see how he stood there as if he didn’t know where he was? I thought he was going to faint,’ she said. ‘I wonder how Mrs Saville feeds him? He’s out such a lot, I expect he gets warmed-up leftovers half the time.
’
Grace smirked, but otherwise there was no reaction. Tom Munday had seen the curate’s strange behaviour, and had drawn his own conclusions. He thought of Eddie Cooper’s dilemma over Mary, how Eddie was unable to talk to her; it could be difficult for fathers of daughters, but his Isabel was a good, sensible girl, conscious of her parents’ love for her, and likely to be much less of a worry than Grace.
After Sunday dinner had been cleared away and Ernest had left for the Bible study group, Isabel put on her flowery hat and said she was going to see Betty Goddard, which pleased her father; a good talk with a friend of her own age would probably be the best thing for her.
It wasn’t a downright lie, but only half a one; Isabel knew that Betty was likely to be visiting her grandmother as she usually did on a Sunday afternoon, but she called at the Goddards just to make sure, and was thankful that nobody appeared to be at home. Oh, how she longed to get right away from everybody and walk as far as she could, alone with her own tumultuous thoughts – a mixture of hope, apprehension and sheer joy; for when Mr Storey had hesitated in front of her at the altar rail, and she had raised her face to him and smiled, holding out her hands for the chalice, some wordless message had passed between them, and she had at last acknowledged what was in her own heart. It was as if a jigsaw puzzle had finally fallen into place, and whereas before she had imagined what it must be like to be married to a clergyman, now she acknowledged the truth: she was in love with Mr Storey. She could tell nobody, certainly not her parents, for they would neither believe her nor approve; they would point out that she was only just sixteen, as if she didn’t know.
She hurried out of the village and made her way down to the meadowlands on the near side of the Blackwater river, where a clump of trees stood on what was still common land. Here she could hug her secret to herself, and she twirled round and round, holding her hat by its white ribbon and laughing at herself.
And that was how Mark Storey came upon her, for he too was out walking on this late summer afternoon, alternately rejoicing for love of Isabel Munday and then accusing himself of weakness on account of it. He was thankful that Mr Saville had merely asked, ‘Are you all right, Mark? You looked a bit pale during Communion.’
‘I’m all right, thank you, Mr Saville. I just didn’t sleep very well last night, that’s all.’
‘Yes, it’s this heat. A good dinner will put you to rights. Would you care for a glass of sherry before we sit down?’
As soon as he could possibly excuse himself after the Sunday roast, Mark had put his straw boater on his head, and strode forth, deciding to make for the Blackwater meadows and lose himself among the trees. Yes! As long as nobody else knew of his secret, life could go on as usual, worshipping her from a distance. Or so he thought.
And then he saw her, like a vision conjured up from sheer longing. He stood stock-still at first, watching her until she caught sight of him and at once stopped twirling; she put her hat back on, and for a long moment they stared at each other.
Then he spoke. ‘Isabel.’
It was only one word, her Christian name instead of Miss Munday. But it was enough. They began walking towards each other as if impelled by some force beyond themselves, and she held out her hands as she had held them out for the chalice that morning. He folded his arms around her, and she laid her head upon his shoulder. Released from its pins, her hair tumbled down over her shoulders; he thought he had never seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful. For a while there was silence, and then he spoke quietly and clearly.
‘I may not declare myself to you, Isabel, so young as you are, not without your parents’ knowledge. There would be a fearful scandal if…if…’
‘Then we won’t tell anybody, dear Mr Storey,’ she replied, lifting her head and looking full into his face. ‘Nobody but ourselves will know, and it will be a secret, won’t it? And then…oh, then if you have to leave North Camp and be sent to another parish, we two would still know, wouldn’t we?’
‘Yes, my love, and I’ll wait for you until you’re eighteen, or older – I’ll wait for you as long as I have to, Isabel.’
‘And I’ll wait too, dear Mr Storey!’
‘Call me Mark, Isabel.’
‘Mark,’ she murmured, and then more clearly, ‘Mark!’
Their first kiss was no less loving because it was gentle and chaste, but they both knew that a bridge had been crossed and there could be no going back.
‘We’d better go back to the village, my love,’ he said at length. ‘I won’t take your arm, much as I’d like to. In fact, it would be best if you walk on ahead, and I’ll follow.’ He felt that he had to be careful of her good name, and so with a last tremulous kiss, and enveloped in a mutual intensity of emotions, they returned separately to North Camp.
But they had been seen.
‘I saw you lingering back along Bent Lane, with your young man following on behind,’ announced Grace as soon as her sister had stepped over the threshhold. Isabel coloured and frowned.
‘Don’t be silly, Grace, Mr Storey is just a nice man who’s very good at his – at his work,’ she replied, though unable to hide her blushes and shining eyes, for it was not in her nature to deceive. Grace laughed.
‘And the band played, “Believe it if you like!” Come off it, Izzy, he’s crazy about you, anybody could see that in church this morning!’
Poor Isabel. Poor Mark Storey, a serious-minded man wanting to do the right and honourable thing, decided against secrecy after all, and confided in the Rev. Mr Saville that same evening, who passed it on to his astonished wife. The bishop was speedily informed, and before the end of September Mr Storey had been transferred to a parish in the East End of London. Isabel wept bitterly at his departure, confirming Tom Munday’s suspicions that Storey’s love for her was returned, and he could only commend the curate’s honesty. Violet on the other hand was pained by what she saw as Isabel’s deception of her parents, and the curate’s perfidy.
‘Don’t be annoyed with them, Vi,’ Tom counselled her gently. ‘Just thank heaven that Isabel’s a good girl, not one to bring shame on her family – which is more than can be said for some I could mention.’
Tom quietly let Isabel know that she and the Rev. Storey could correspond, not oftener than once a month, and that he must see all the letters that came and went. She vowed again that she would wait until she reached an age when she’d be considered old enough to become a clergyman’s wife. Tom privately considered that one or other of them would grow tired of waiting. And there the matter had to rest.
At Schelling and Pascoe’s smart new office in Everham High Street Ernest Munday was thankful beyond words that he had at last found his niche in life, for his employers were delighted with him. Mrs Munday had at first been shocked and sorry to hear that the Schelling family were Jews, but her son was so obviously happy with them and so highly commended by Mr Schelling that she ceased to mention it, especially to their neighbours in North Camp. After only a month Ernest was entrusted with charge of the office on Saturdays, the Jewish Sabbath, and conforming to national practice they closed on Sundays. Mr Schelling was a jovial, thick-set man with a wife and two daughters, and Rachael Woodman was the daughter of his brother. Mr Aaron Pascoe, the son of a Schelling sister, was a thoughtful young man who enjoyed discussing social and international issues with Ernest. He also hinted at unrest in Germany, which was why he had left his childhood home and come to England.
‘Our race has always had to be ready to break camp and move on to other pastures,’ he told Ernest with a smile and a shrug. ‘We have to stand with our lamps lit and our loins girded, ready for an exodus.’ He had eagerly accepted a junior partnership with his uncle who treated him like a son, having none of his own.
Getting to know and respect this Jewish family, Ernest sometimes felt puzzled. While they did not acknowledge Jesus Christ as their Saviour, but were still awaiting the coming of their true Messiah, they were strict in the observances of their religion, which made
them no less considerate or good-humoured. Ernest felt no missionary zeal to preach the Gospel to them as if they were heathen, and had no wish to damage the cordial relationship he had with them. He wondered how they had reacted to Rachael’s conversion to Christianity, and one day when talking with Aaron, he asked him tentatively about the matter.
‘My aunt was very distressed about her daughter’s marriage at first, and said she wouldn’t attend the wedding in a Methodist church,’ Aaron answered. ‘But my uncle took the view that they must never disown Rachael, and I think Paul did a lot towards encouraging her to stay in touch with her parents, and well, being such an obviously decent fellow, they couldn’t fail to like him. And then when Lucy was born - well, you know what women are like with babies – my aunt succumbed, and there was reconciliation of a sort. And of course Paul and Rachael live quite a distance away from the family.’
Hearing this, Ernest still wondered how Paul had persuaded Rachael to forsake the religion of her race; was it that she genuinely came to believe that Christ was her Saviour? Ernest concluded that she had, though a part of him suspected that she must have been passionately in love with Paul, and determined to marry him in defiance of parents and grandparents.
Just as he himself would have married Paul if either of them had been a woman.
CHAPTER FOUR
May, 1914
Tom Munday sat reading the monthly letter his daughter Isabel had written to the Rev. Mark Storey, the newly inducted vicar of St Barnabas’ Church in the East London borough of Bethnal Green. Each month Tom felt more uncomfortable about this censorship of their letters. The one-time awkward, well-meaning curate now had charge of a rough, sometimes dangerous parish, and the shy girl dreaming of love in a vicarage had become a capable young woman of eighteen, as pretty as ever, and much loved and respected at Miss Daniells’ school. And she remained as unwavering in her attachment to Mark Storey as his for her. They had served almost two years of enforced separation from each other, during which time they had not once met, for when Mark had invited Isabel and her parents to attend his induction earlier in the year, Tom had given way to his wife’s insistence that they should decline. A complete separation decreed by a bishop should be strictly observed, she argued, though Tom was not as convinced as she was, and now regretted their decision. For one thing, it would have given Isabel an opportunity to compare the relatively rural life of North Camp with the poverty and hardship of an East London parish, a life that she might be required to share in due time.
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