by Pam Rhodes
Felicity smiled back at him. “Yes, I’m back in Dunbridge until the end of the week anyway, because Claire’s so busy with work. I don’t like the idea that there might not be anyone here to keep an eye on Harry.”
“And Sam too!” added Harry. “I’m not the only big kid who needs looking after in this house!”
“Where is Sam?” asked Neil, looking around.
“Sound asleep, I hope,” replied Claire. “He’s completely exhausted every night now he’s at school.”
“Will you say hello to him for me?” Neil’s head was practically touching hers as they stood together. “Tell him I’m looking forward to hearing all about big school.”
“I will.”
Claire held his gaze for just a second or two before Neil broke the spell by reaching for an envelope, which he drew out of his jacket pocket.
“For you, Harry,” he explained, offering it to the older man. “It’s the leaflet about the evangelical service we’re having instead of our normal Family Worship at St Stephen’s this Sunday. I don’t know if you fancy coming?”
“If he does, I’ll take him up in the car,” said Claire.
“Or I might walk,” added Harry. “The doctor says I need to get plenty of exercise.”
“Then I’ll walk with you,” said Claire firmly.
“And stay at the service, do you mean, until I need to go home again?”
“If need be, yes.”
“In that case,” said Harry, his eyes twinkling as he turned towards Neil, “you’re definitely not to bother yourself with how I’m going to get there. You’ll have a lot on your plate that morning, and I can’t think of anything nicer than knowing that Claire – who, incidentally, professes to anyone who’ll listen that she doesn’t believe in God at all – will be sitting alongside me in the pew. That’s worth being ill for!”
After that, goodbyes were said, and Neil left the house warmed, just as Harry had been, by the thought that Claire might actually come along to a service, albeit for Harry’s sake rather than her own. So Neil would see her again on Sunday. That would be nice.
Later that evening, when Harry had taken himself up to bed, Claire was stretched out on the sofa watching television as her mum came in with a couple of cups of hot chocolate. Settling herself comfortably into the armchair, Felicity clearly had something on her mind.
“What?” asked Claire, putting her cup down on the table beside her. “Something’s bugging you.”
“Neil. He’s nice.”
Claire eyed her quizzically. “Yes.”
“You seem close.”
“Not particularly. We hardly see each other.”
“But you’d like to.”
“For heaven’s sake, he’s a vicar, in case you hadn’t noticed. Not really my type, is he?”
“Isn’t he?”
“Well, what do you think? If it weren’t for Harry getting me the gardening contract for St Stephen’s, I’d never choose to set foot in the place. I’m not a Christian. I can’t believe in any of that mumbo-jumbo about God and the Holy Trinity. So, no, he’s not my type!”
When her mother didn’t respond, Claire kept talking to fill the silence.
“Look, we’re mates. He was the best possible friend to me the night that Harry was taken ill. He’s a nice man…”
“I can see you like him.”
“Yes, I like him. I don’t like him in the way you mean.”
“So how do you feel about him?”
“Mum, this is madness. He’s nice. He makes me laugh. He’s great with Sam and Harry. He’s caring and supportive. But there are loads of ways he drives me mad, because he’s completely hopeless at looking after himself and is so disorganized sometimes. But he’s good fun. He makes me think. I enjoy his company.”
“You like him…”
Claire’s shoulders dropped as she took a deep breath to think for a while. Finally, she said, “Yes, I like him. I really like him.”
“Does he know how much?” asked Felicity gently.
“We’ve spoken about it.”
“Does he feel the same way?”
“Perhaps. I’m not sure now. We both know we couldn’t be more incompatible, so it’s not something we choose to take any further. We’re friends. Good friends.”
Felicity picked up her cup to take a sip of hot chocolate. Claire seemed too absorbed in her own thoughts to remember she had a cup too. Cupping the steaming mug in her hands, Felicity studied her daughter with interest.
“I got a letter a couple of weeks back,” Felicity said at last.
Claire looked up then. “From?”
“Ben Stone.”
“What! How did he know where to write to you?”
“He’s always known. I made sure he had our address when he went back to Australia.”
“And this is the first time he’s bothered to get in touch in more than five years?”
“No. I’ve heard from him a couple of times before.”
“And you never told me? You didn’t think I should know that Ben was in touch with you – the man who got me pregnant but cared so little that he scuttled back home to Australia without a word before Sam was even born?”
“I wasn’t sure what to do. That whole situation hurt you so badly. You always seemed really angry about him. I didn’t quite know what to do for the best – and in the end, because he wasn’t saying much that was likely to help you, I decided it was best to keep it to myself.”
“You had no right to decide that.”
“Maybe not, but it was me he was in touch with, not you. I just dropped him the odd card and photo every now and then at his parents’ address. Sam’s his son. His mum and dad have a grandchild. It seemed right they should have the chance to know about him.”
“Ben has no rights! He ran out on me and Sam like a scared little rabbit – not the man and father we needed him to be.”
“He was young and immature, not ready to be a dad…”
“I was young and immature too, but I had to get on with being a mother. I didn’t get pregnant all by myself. He played his part just as much as I did, but he couldn’t wait to put half a world between us when he thought he might have to act like a responsible adult.”
Shocked at the strength of Claire’s anger, Felicity fell silent. Minutes ticked by, until eventually it was Claire who spoke again.
“Why are you telling me now? What was in this last letter?”
“Can I show you? I have it here.”
Pulling out an airmail envelope from the pocket of her dressing gown, Felicity held it out. Reluctantly, Claire took it, and Felicity watched as shock registered on her daughter’s face at the sight of Ben’s handwriting for the first time in five years.
Dear Felicity,
Mum gave me your last letter with the photo of Sam in the garden. I can’t believe how tall he is. He’s a proper little man.
It’s good of you to keep in touch. Not many people would in your situation. Does Claire know? How does she feel about you sending me photos of Sam?
Seeing how grown up Sam is now makes me realize just how much I’ve changed too. Life is very different for me these days. I’ve started my own car repair business, and it’s really taken off. I’ve got proper premises and even employ another mechanic, so I’m quite the entrepreneur – well, I’m working on it anyway!
It’s made me think that it’s time I started supporting my son. I’d like to set up a regular payment arrangement to make sure Claire has everything she needs for Sam. How do you think she would react to that? Should I write to her? Would it be better if you sounded her out for me?
I just know I should take more responsibility. As I live thousands of miles away from Dunbridge, I can’t do much, but I would like to do this.
What do you think?
Yours,
Ben
“No, definitely not.” Two red spots had appeared on Claire’s cheeks as she read the letter.
“You could do with some proper finan
cial support for Sam…”
“I could have done with his support five years ago. How dare he think he can swan in now and play Lord Bountiful with his money! I don’t want a penny. I don’t need anything from him!”
“But what about Sam? Like it or not, Ben is his dad. Doesn’t he have a right to know he cares?”
“He doesn’t care!”
“He wants to show his care in a practical way – with money.”
“Easy come, easy go; that’s what money is to him. Where’s the care in that? Where was Ben when I was nine months pregnant and terrified? Where was he when Sam didn’t sleep at night for the first six months? Where was he when his son woke up with nightmares, or had chickenpox, or fell off his bike? If he thinks money makes him a parent, he should be ashamed of himself.”
“I think he is ashamed, and he does regret the way he let you and Sam down. I also think he wants to make amends in the only way he can from the other side of the world.”
“The best thing he can do is to keep his regrets and his suggestions to himself in deepest Australia. Sam and I are managing very well without him, thank you.”
“Claire…”
“Mum, just drop it, will you!”
Claire got up suddenly and headed for the door.
“I’m going to bed.”
And with that, the door slammed behind her.
* * *
“Remind me,” muttered Peter as he and Neil stood at the door welcoming people into church for the first Back to Church Week service on Sunday morning. “Why are we letting the evangelicals take over our Family Worship this morning?”
“Because,” replied Neil under his breath, managing to keep smiling towards the newcomers while continuing to speak, “there is one God, one body, one church. We’re all Christians. We just have different styles of worship.”
“And what exactly made you think happy-clappies waving their arms in the air would fit alongside the conservative crowd here at St Stephen’s?”
There was no hesitation in Neil’s answer. “It’s just what we need! They’ll shake things up a bit. Yes, our lot are a conservative crowd, but if they’re confident and joyful in their faith, why not have a bit of clapping, arm waving and happiness in their worship?”
“Right,” laughed Peter as he started to move away, “see you at the other end – if you live that long…”
Neil took a deep breath, hoping he was coming across with a semblance of confidence, even though that was far from how he felt. His name was all over this week of events, and he knew he was taking a tremendous gamble. He looked around at some of the familiar faces from St Stephen’s, who were sitting stoically in their usual places as the church filled up with visitors. And there was Harry back in his usual seat, with Claire at his side. Dear God, please don’t let this all fall apart with her here! With trepidation, his eye moved along the row to find the one person whose presence he probably feared most: Lady Romily, the elderly wife of the largest landowner in the area, who was not only a staunch Anglican and regular churchgoer, but the formidable chairwoman of the St Stephen’s Ladies’ Guild. Her lips were strained and tight, her eyes narrowed and her expression one of appalled indignation as she surveyed the scene. Oh heck, thought Neil, we’re in for a bumpy ride!
“A word, please, Neil?”
Neil turned to find Brian Lambert at his side.
“You know they’ve brought their own musicians?”
“Yes. You thought that would be OK, didn’t you?”
“But they’ve not brought any music, so how exactly is our worship group supposed to join in?”
“These are all quite familiar modern choruses, aren’t they? And they’re in the books we’ve got here. I checked.”
“Yes, but in a different key.”
“Oooh!” sighed Neil, running his hand through his hair. “Can’t we find copies of their music, perhaps on the internet? It wouldn’t take long in the church office…”
“But then,” continued Brian, “they now tell me they like to busk their own thing at the start of the service as the Spirit moves them apparently.”
“I see,” said Neil, who was completely unmusical and really didn’t see at all. “What can I do to help?”
Brian looked straight into Neil’s eyes. “Whenever there’s anything to do with music here at St Stephen’s, you need to ask me to organize it. I am Director of Music here. You don’t let complete strangers come in and impose their ideas without talking to me first. Do you understand?”
Neil nodded humbly. “I’m sorry, Brian, I thought this was all arranged. Garry assured me that his music man, Rick, was in touch with you.”
“Well, he wasn’t.”
“I see. I’m sorry. Where does that leave us?”
“It leaves you, Neil, with a complete mess on your hands.”
“For heaven’s sake, Brian!” Neil voice was hoarse with exasperation. “Love your neighbour – isn’t that what Christ taught us? We’re all Christians. You know these songs – and even if you don’t, you know how easy they are to learn. Just do your best, please. You’re brilliant at what you do. Our worship group’s really talented, and Wendy’s made them so versatile. You can do this, I know you can!”
Perhaps it was the note of desperation in Neil’s voice that brought a slight glimmer of satisfaction and appeasement to Brian’s face.
“OK,” he agreed, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Ready?” asked Margaret, appearing at Neil’s side. “About five minutes to go. I’ll just say a few words of welcome at the start, then hand straight over to the visiting pastor, shall I?”
“Fine,” agreed Neil, noticing as he spoke that the pastor was making his way towards them. “Margaret, you know Garry, of course.”
“Welcome to St Stephen’s,” said Margaret smoothly. “We have high hopes for this opening Back to Church event. It’s good for us to welcome so many new faces here.”
A tall man, Garry stared down intently into Margaret’s eyes as he clasped her hand in both of his own.
“We are here in his name, Margaret; here in his holy name. Now, before we start, shall we pray?”
Garry’s arms went round both Neil’s and Margaret’s shoulders, drawing them into a tight circle.
“Father God,” began Garry, suddenly lifting his face heavenward, “we just want to worship you, praise you and lift your holy name on high! You know us. You have held us in the palm of your hand. You know our hearts. You know our failings. We just ask for your presence with us today, Lord. Father God, pour out your blessing on our worship here. Just bless us. Be with us, Lord, now and always. Father God, we just ask this in your blessed and holy name. Amen. Amen.”
“Amen,” came the muffled response from Neil and Margaret, their heads bowed down with the weight of Garry’s arms on their shoulders.
“Show time!” said Garry. “You start, Margaret. We’ll take over from there!”
The muscles in Neil’s stomach twisted into painful knots as he picked his way through the combined musicians of both St Stephen’s and the evangelical Church of God, and headed for his usual seat at the front of the church. He caught Wendy’s eye, but found no friendly reassurance there. In fact, what was it he could see in her expression? Pity? Triumph? Suddenly he felt like a naughty five-year-old in one of her music classes – beyond hope. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and tried to quieten his mind enough to pray. It didn’t work. Whatever happened from now on, he knew the next hour was one he’d never forget – and if it went completely wrong, he also knew that no one else would ever forget his part in it either.
Silence fell as Margaret moved to the front to make her brief welcome and to introduce Garry, who was greeted by a ripple of applause as he stepped up to take over.
“Let’s stand and praise God!” Garry’s arms were spread wide in invitation. “You’ll see the words on the screen at the front here. Even if you aren’t familiar with these choruses yet, just let the prayer in the words and t
he beauty of the melody wash over you. Father God, we pray that your Spirit will be the wind beneath our wings!”
And with that the music, which had been throbbing quietly beneath his words, took over with an urgency and volume that seemed to shake the old walls. The Church of God singers, who were seated alongside the St Stephen’s choir, got to their feet immediately, swaying to the rhythm, their arms in the air, faces lifted high. With uncertainty and a little embarrassment, one by one the St Stephen’s choir stood up too, as they fumbled to find the song in their regular hymn books.
Feeling he should lead the way, Neil quickly got to his feet and started singing, hoping the rest of the congregation would follow his lead. Peering out towards the body of the church, he could see a wide range of reactions, from some of the visitors who were joining in with enthusiasm, to the most conservative of the St Stephen’s worshippers who were either sitting doggedly in their seats, or looking around at people they knew so that they could decide whether or not to join in.
But if the service started shakily, Neil wasn’t the only one to realize that the whole atmosphere gradually changed from uncertain to positively electric within the first quarter of an hour. Perhaps it was because the choruses, with their lilting melodies, soon became more familiar and easy to sing. Maybe it was the words, which were pithy, current and steeped in praise and deep belief. Or was it simply because, without a doubt, God was with them? As the service continued with its flowing mix of readings, inspirational teaching, prayer and praise, a sense of fellowship drew that congregation of diverse souls into one body, the body of Christ. Tears pricked at Neil’s eyes as the last chorus was followed by a blessing that brought a sensation of pins and needles throughout his whole body. He was moved, touched, inspired – and more relieved than words could say. Surely the experience must have been as compelling for everyone else in the church as it had been for him?
Joining the queue for coffee and cake in the church hall ten minutes later, he felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders as he realized that the overriding opinion was that the service had been an unexpected and thoroughly enjoyable success. One by one, the parishioners of St Stephen’s came up to congratulate him for his foresight in organizing such a joyful outpouring of faith and praise. Most heart-warming of all was the enthusiastic endorsement he got from Harry when Neil went to sit beside him at the edge of the hall.
