‘Eeh! Isn’t that lovely?’ exclaimed Ginny. ‘It’s like something out of another time.’
‘Yes, I always come here when I’ve been to the market,’ said Fiona. ‘Let’s see of we can find a table … Yes, there’s one, right at the back, and there’s room for Stella’s pushchair in the corner. ‘They know us here; Mabel will find some cushions so that she can sit on a proper chair.’
‘Hello there.’ The said waitress, Mabel, was soon with them, dressed in the blue uniform dress with a frilled apron and mob cap in a paler shade. ‘Now, what would you like today, Mrs Norwood? The usual, is it, tea and fruit scones?’
‘Er, no. I think we’ll push the boat out today and have cream cakes as it’s a special occasion. This is my friend from Tyneside; I haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘How d’you do?’ said Mabel, smiling cheerfully. ‘What do you think of our little town then?’
‘It’s real quaint,’ Ginny replied. ‘A far cry from South Shields! Still, home’s home, isn’t it?’ she added loyally. ‘It’s nice to visit other places though, now and again. But we’ve come to see Fiona, not the town … Only a small cream cake, Fiona.’ She patted her stomach.
‘I don’t think any of them are all that small,’ laughed Fiona, ‘but we’ll restrict ourselves to one each.’
Ginny chose a chocolate eclair and Fiona a cream horn from the selection that Mabel brought. The tea was in a silver pot, with rose patterned china cups and saucers, and Stella had a drink of orange juice and a chocolate biscuit.
‘Now, spill the beans,’ said Ginny when the waitress had gone. ‘I’m dying to know. Did you mean what I think you mean?’
Fiona smiled. ‘Actually I’m not quite sure yet. I’m … well, I’m late, you see,’ she whispered. ‘Only a few days, and I never am, not normally. I knew straightaway with Stella, and with … the other one, of course. And I feel a bit different, somehow.’ She nodded. ‘I’m pretty certain I’m expecting again, but you’re the very first to know. Apart from Simon; I tell him everything.’
‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Ginny. ‘I do hope you’re right. It’ll be a nice age gap, won’t it, about two years between Stella and her little brother … or sister.’
‘Yes, I can’t really afford to wait any longer, can I? I’m nearly thirty-four now, and Simon’s in his late forties, not that it matters to either of us.’
‘I think my child rearing days are over,’ said Ginny. ‘At least I jolly well hope so! They’re not all as easy as your little Stella.’
‘Oh, she has her moments,’ replied Fiona. ‘But on the whole, yes, she’s a remarkably good little girl. You never know what’s in the future, though, do you? How they will turn out?’
‘She’s not likely to go far wrong with you and Simon as parents,’ said Ginny.
‘Oh, don’t be too sure,’ replied Fiona. ‘I’ve heard of clergymen’s children who’ve rebelled and kicked over the traces. She may seem to be a little angel now, but only time will tell.’
Ginny knew that she had to bring up what was on her mind, but she also had to be careful to keep mum. ‘Do you ever think …’ she began carefully, ‘you know, about your first little girl? Does it bring it all back, seeing me again?’
‘No, not very much; not now,’ answered Fiona. ‘When Stella was born Simon actually asked me then if I would like to trace her. It was after Greg had turned up. But I said no, and I meant it. And that’s how I still feel about it. I just hope she’s happy, wherever she is. She may not even have been told about me. She’s almost the same age as your Ryan …’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘It all turned out right for you as well, didn’t it, Ginny? I can see how happy you and Arthur are.’
‘Yes, and our Ryan’s a good lad,’ said Ginny. ‘I’m real thankful we were able to keep him. I admit I don’t go to church all that often, Fiona, but I do thank God for that, and for our other two children.’
‘Do you ever see any of the girls who were in the home with us?’ asked Fiona.
‘No, I’ve never set eyes on any of ’em,’ said Ginny. ‘It’s strange, that, because they were mostly from the Tyneside area.’ She was just about to say that she had seen Claire Wagstaff, but changed her mind. It might lead to more awkward questions.
‘Do you remember Hazel Doherty?’ asked Fiona.
‘Could we ever forget her? Nasty piece of work, she was. I don’t think anybody liked her. Why?’
‘Because I saw her, just once,’ said Fiona. ‘At the clinic when I was expecting Stella. I just caught a glimpse of her – you know, how you do sometimes, and you’re not quite sure who it is? Anyway, it was after that, that the folk in the parish found out about my first baby, and I guessed it must have been Hazel who told somebody who knew me. And then the gossip started.’
‘It sounds just like Hazel,’ said Ginny. ‘She always was a vindictive bitch. Sorry, Fiona! Must watch my language!’
Fiona smiled. ‘No, you’re right. She was … not very nice. Anyway, it was a nine days’ wonder in the parish. Simon soon put a stop to the gossip, and so did Joan; that’s the friend we’re going to see now. And I’ve never seen her again; Hazel, I mean. Odd, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe she’s moved on elsewhere,’ said Ginny. ‘She didn’t seem the type to stay in one place for long. Good riddance to her … That cream cake was delicious. I hope I’ll have room for my tea!’
Fiona laughed. ‘I think we’d better be posh and call it dinner tonight. I’m cooking something special in your honour, at least I’m trying! I don’t think I do too badly in the kitchen. Simon never complains anyway, bless him! Now, if you’re ready we’ll go and see Joan.’
Nine
Joan Tweedale’s handicraft shop on the High Street had always been a source of delight to Fiona. Joan was the wife of Henry, the organist and choirmaster. She was in her early fifties and her husband a few years older. Fiona had felt drawn to both of them on their first acquaintance. Henry had invited Fiona to join the choir, which she had been pleased to do. She had a pleasant mezzo-soprano voice; not a solo sort of voice but she blended in well with a choir.
And Joan had proved to be a real friend in need. It was Joan who had taken Fiona, the rector’s new wife, under her wing and had told her not to be intimidated by the diehards of the congregation, mainly the older women of the Mothers’ Union, under the leadership of a certain Mrs Ethel Bayliss, who did not take kindly to change. But Fiona, with Joan’s advice, had proved her worth in the parish, and now the rector’s wife was well known, and becoming very popular in the town of Aberthwaite.
There was no one else in the little shop when they entered. Joan appeared from the back room at the sound of the bell’s old-fashioned tinkle. She was an attractive woman with auburn hair, now greying at the temples. Her brown eyes lit up with pleasure when she saw Fiona and her friend and her little granddaughter, Stella.
‘Hello there,’ she said. ‘You must be Ginny. Fiona’s told me a lot about you. Have you girls had a good old chinwag together?’
‘I’ll say we have!’ said Ginny. ‘We’ve hardly stopped for breath. Pleased to meet you, Joan. I’ve heard a lot about you, too; about what a good friend you’ve been to Fiona.’
‘I’ve tried to be,’ replied Joan. ‘But it’s mutual; we help one another. We stand firm against the opposition, don’t we, Fiona?’ She smiled. ‘Are you all set for tomorrow, you and Simon? It should prove interesting.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Ginny.
‘Oh, we’re trying something different at the service,’ said Fiona. ‘I’ll tell you later. Actually we’ve come to buy some wool – at least Ginny has – as well as to see you, Joan.’
Ginny was staring round at the array of goods for sale that filled every corner of the little shop. Knitting wool in every imaginable shade, in ready-to-use balls. It wasn’t so long ago, as the women remembered, when wool was bought in hanks, and you had to persuade a willing husband or mother, or somebody, to hold the hank in outstretched hands whilst you la
boriously wound the wool into a more manageable ball. There were tapestry sets, of flowers, animals and country scenes with the embroidery silks required; examples of crocheted and knitted garments displayed on hangers; buttons of every shape and size; ribbons, lace, braids and tassels for adornment and, on the counter, large books of knitting patterns.
‘Eeh!’ exclaimed Ginny – the Geordie remark that had used to amuse Fiona but which she now had come to expect – ‘It’s a real Aladdin’s cave, isn’t it?’ She looked at it all in wonderment.
‘Isn’t it just?’ said Fiona. ‘I was amazed the first time I saw it all. I was never all that good at handiwork, and I still don’t sew very much, but Joan got me started on rather more complicated knitting. I could only do plain and purl before she took me in hand. Now, can you see anything that takes your fancy, Ginny?’
‘Far too much,’ said Ginny, ‘but I’ll just concentrate on the knitting wool.’ She showed Joan the materials she had bought at the market. ‘I thought I’d knit a nice lacy cardigan for my daughter.’
Between them they chose a pretty shade of blue that would go well with both the floral and the pink candy-striped fabrics, and an intricate lacy pattern that Ginny was eager to tackle.
‘Mind you, I only knit for our Sharon,’ she said, ‘or for myself, now and again. She’s ten, so I don’t know how much longer she’ll want to wear her mum’s home-made things. I don’t knit for the lads any more; our Ryan and Carl, they wouldn’t be seen dead in a hand-knitted jumper.’
‘You’re getting me going now,’ said Fiona. ‘Stella could wear bright colours now, couldn’t she? I really like that deep coral shade, or that bright yellow. What do you think, Joan?’
Joan advised her that the coral pink would be better with Stella’s blonde hair. They chose a pattern for a lacy cardigan, though not as intricate as the one that Ginny had chosen. Stella was by now fast asleep, oblivious to their plans for her future clothing.
‘Well, we’d better be off then,’ Fiona said, when they had chatted for a while. ‘This little lady’s ready for a proper nap, and time’s getting on. See you in the morning, Joan.’
They said their goodbyes and set off back along the High Street, then along the side road that led to the church and rectory, only a few minutes’ walk from the centre of the little town.
‘She’s very pleasant, isn’t she?’ observed Ginny. ‘I’m glad you’ve got a good friend here, although she’s probably one of many, is she?’
‘Yes …’ Fiona answered a little carefully. ‘I have quite a few friends. There are some folk, though, who tend to be rather wary of making friends with the clergy, or their wives, as though there’s something a little bit odd about us. But they usually decide that we’re quite normal! I found it strange at first, being married to the rector, but Simon has never expected me to behave any differently because of my … er … status. Although I do try to exercise decorum when it’s expected of me! I have several friends in our Young Wives group. Most of my friends are connected with the church. I must admit it can make you rather insular in outlook if you’re not careful. Simon tries hard with what he calls ‘outreach’, encouraging the folk who wouldn’t normally think of coming to church. That’s what Joan was referring to. We’re trying a new venture tomorrow: a family service with the Sunday school children, and their parents … we hope! Anyway, we’ll see what happens. You and Arthur will come along tomorrow, won’t you?’
‘Yes, we’ll be there,’ said Ginny.
Simon and Fiona explained to their guests a little about the service to be held the following day, whilst they ate their evening meal. Fiona had done them proud with succulent roast pork – with crisp crackling – cauliflower cheese, carrots and peas, roast potatoes and both sage and onion stuffing and apple sauce, followed by Eve’s pudding and fresh cream, all home made. Then they chatted in the lounge over coffee and After Eight mints, the feast completed later with a glass of fine sherry – for the ladies. Simon guessed that Arthur might prefer a beer so he joined him in a pint of Yorkshire bitter.
They tried not to make the conversation too ‘churchy’. They talked about the walk that the men had enjoyed that afternoon, about the football teams they supported – Sunderland and Leeds United – and, more seriously, about the recent assassination of Martin Luther King, and Enoch Powell’s rantings in Parliament, concerning the Kenyan Asians being forced out of their country, and the possibility of them taking up residence in Britain.
Arthur had come to the conclusion that Simon was a grand sort of chap who took an interest in most things; home and world politics as well as the concerns of his own church and parish, which had to be his primary consideration.
‘We’re about to make a radical change from tomorrow,’ he told them. ‘At least, radical for St Peter’s. Our Sunday school, from now on, is going to be held in the morning instead of the afternoon. We think it’s the way ahead, don’t we, darling?’
‘Yes, we’ve noticed that children are staying away because their parents want to go out as a family on a Sunday afternoon,’ said Fiona. ‘Especially those who have cars, and who can blame them?’
‘Of course there are sure to be those who don’t agree,’ said Simon. ‘There are some at St Peter’s who take the words of the prayer book literally. “As it was in the beginning is now and ever shalt be, world without end, Amen!”’ He gave a wry smile. ‘You know, we’ve always done it this way, so why should we change? We’ve done it all democratically, though. We took a vote about the proposals at a church council meeting, which is the correct procedure; and it was passed by a majority vote. There were a couple of dissenters and some abstainers, but we got the result needed to go ahead.’
‘Why the objections?’ asked Ginny. ‘I should think it makes sense.’
‘Well, apart from what I’ve mentioned – resistance to change of any kind – there is the view that parents like Sunday afternoons to themselves. You know, pack the kids off to Sunday school, then Mum and Dad have some free time – possibly Dad’s only afternoon off – to do whatever they like. Need I say more?’ He grinned. ‘And some may not like the idea of the family service that we plan to do once a month; the children in church with their parents – we hope – and a much more free and easy form of worship. Anyway, we’ll see what sort of a response we get tomorrow …’
Parts of St Peter’s church dated from the fourteenth century. There was a faint musty, though not unpleasant aroma on entering; of old hymn books and bibles, together with the scent of furniture polish and the spring flowers – hyacinths and daffodils – on top of the closed stone font and on the altar. It did not feel cold and clammy as did some ancient buildings, but comfortably warm with the heat circulating from the iron grilles set in the floor along the central aisle.
Ginny looked round at the massive stone pillars and the vaulted ceiling. The high-backed pews did not look as though they were built for comfort, although there were flat cushions along the length to make it a little easier on the posterior, and kneelers – she thought that the correct name was hassocks – with colourful tapestry covers adding a touch of brightness to the dark oak pews. Fiona told her later that they had been made by a band of willing parishioners to celebrate the coronation of Queen Elizabeth in 1953; designs of flowers of the realm, birds and animals, heraldic beasts, and some in simple geometric patterns.
One’s eyes grew accustomed to the dimness as diffused light shone in through the stained glass windows. Ginny’s eyes were drawn to the one of Christ in glory over the altar, with scenes of the Nativity and the Crucifixion on either side. The altar cloth of rich red and blue was embroidered with golden lilies, and another focal point was the brass lectern in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings.
Ginny and Arthur sat in a pew about halfway down the church. Fiona had explained that she could not be with them as she sang in the choir, but Joan Tweedale, a few rows in front, turned round giving them a little wave and a smile. Ginny, taking her cue from those around her, knelt d
own on entering the pew and nudged Arthur to do the same. At the mid-Victorian church that they occasionally attended in South Shields – Ginny slightly more often than Arthur – the worshippers simply bowed their heads whilst remaining seated. She knew, though, with her limited experience, that there was a good deal of diversity in the Church of England, ranging from what they called Low Church to Anglo-Catholic. She guessed that this church was what you might call ‘middle of the road’; there were no candles or incense, neither did they bow their heads to the altar.
The organist who Ginny knew to be Henry Tweedale, Joan’s husband, played before the service started – not solemn music but what she recognized as songs from popular shows: ‘O, What a Beautiful Morning’ – which it was; cool, but bright and sunny – and then ‘Who Shall Buy This Wonderful Morning?’ from Oliver. Then the choir processed round the church, with Simon at the head, to the singing of ‘O, Jesus I Have Promised’ – to a catchy new tune – then the service began.
Ginny thought there was a goodly number in the congregation, but then she didn’t know how many usually attended. At a glance she guessed there could be forty or more children, some with their parents, others obviously with their Sunday school teachers. The very young children, including Stella, were being cared for in the usual crèche. There were two young children, though, whose parents had decided to keep them in church; but they were clearly in need of firmer handling than they were receiving. They shouted out in loud voices, and ran up and down the aisle a couple of times, resulting in annoyed glances and cries of ‘Shush!’ from a few older members of the congregation.
Families and Friendships Page 9
