Casting the Net

by Pam Rhodes

  “I’m an old man,” said Harry. “I have old-fashioned tastes. I like doing things the way they’ve always been done. If I’m honest, Neil, I only came along this morning to support you because I was worried you might come a cropper. I certainly didn’t expect to enjoy it. But I did, I really did!”

  Neil couldn’t hide his pleasure at hearing that, and the two men were still busily discussing the service when Claire came over carrying a tray of coffee and cake.

  “I brought you some lemon drizzle cake, Harry. You too, Neil. I seem to recall it’s your favourite.”

  “Fancy you remembering that!” replied Neil, moving up a seat so that she could sit between them. “Thank you. I appreciate the coffee as well.”

  “White, one sugar,” she said with a wink. “You see, I remembered that too.”

  “Well?” asked Neil. “I’m longing to know what you thought of the service today.”

  “It was…” Claire hesitated. “It was surprising.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t expect it to be like that. It was fun. I enjoyed the singing. I liked the atmosphere. I just didn’t expect it.”

  “And? Would you come again?”

  She grinned at him. “To their church perhaps. To yours, probably not.”

  “How hurtful!” he retorted. “Should I take that personally?”

  “No. This morning I got a sense that there could be something in this God business, but that was because of the way they led the service. I just don’t get that at St Stephen’s.”

  “I do,” interrupted Harry. “But I can see that perhaps your generation needs a different approach from the one that suits an old codger like me. In the end, everyone’s relationship with God is personal. I think it’s got less to do with what goes on in church and more to do with what God does in your life all the rest of the time.”

  “Maybe,” conceded Claire. “Anyway, as soon as you’ve finished your cake, I think I ought to get you home to put your feet up after all this excitement.”

  “Well done, lad,” said Harry, shaking Neil’s hand. Then his attention was claimed by Brenda asking how he was feeling, and he turned aside.

  “Well done, lad,” echoed Claire so that only Neil could hear. “I know you were nervous, but it went really well. I’m pleased for you.”

  “And I’m glad you came. Any time you fancy coming along…”

  “Which I probably won’t…”

  “Understood, but you’re always welcome.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “So I suppose I might just see you when I pop in to visit Harry.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And if you were there…”

  “… with a lemon drizzle cake in my hand…”

  “… that would be very nice.”

  “It would.”

  “No rush, though.”

  “Definitely not. Whenever you’re passing…”

  “I’ll see you, then.”

  “Probably.”

  “Take care.”

  “You too.”

  And with that, Claire took Harry’s arm and led him towards the exit.

  “Reverend Fisher!”

  Neil turned to the commanding figure striding up to him.

  “Lady Romily, how are you?”

  “In need of a conversation with you – soon.”

  “Right. Of course. About anything in particular?”

  “Many things in particular. I can’t fit you in until Tuesday week. You will come for tea.”

  “I will?”

  “You will.”

  “I’ll have to check my diary…”

  “You will come at four o’clock sharp.” Lady Romily was already turning away from him.

  “Sharp!”

  Dismissed and slightly shaken at her obvious displeasure, Neil sat down again to finish his coffee. If he had looked up then, he might have noticed the interest Wendy and her best friend, Debs, were taking from the other side of the hall.

  “How are you feeling about him now?” asked Debs.

  “He’s an idiot, but quite endearing at times.”

  “Could you ever forgive him?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “No chance of you getting back together, then?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that! He just needs to stew a little bit longer first – but of course we will, just as soon as I make up his mind for him.”

  CHAPTER 5

  As Neil walked through the churchyard to the car park on the other side of the wall, he found himself smiling with the same enthusiasm he’d felt every year as a child, when he noticed the first few conkers on the ground beneath the horse chestnut trees.

  Mind you, he was nervous. Margaret reassured him that he shouldn’t be, that Lady Romily was a real sweetheart once you got to know her, but that didn’t stop the sense of foreboding he’d felt since her poker-faced summons. Being busy with the rest of the Back to Church Week events around the town, he’d seen her only once since then, when he’d spotted her in her usual seat in St Stephen’s for his Evensong based on the Book of Common Prayer. From his seat at the front, he could see that she was upright and expressionless. His mouth went dry at the memory. Yes, he was definitely nervous.

  Romily Hall could trace its ancestry back to the Middle Ages, which would normally have fascinated him. Neil had always enjoyed an enthusiastic interest in history, encouraged by his father. Today, however, not even the gracious old house with all its turrets, elegant windows and the impressive coat of arms over the door could lift his spirits as he stretched out towards the bell pull. He half expected a butler to open the door, but instead it was Beryl Turner, a bustling, friendly woman, renowned in church circles for her pastry skills. She greeted him warmly and showed him through to an elegant drawing room with French doors looking out over a beautifully kept rose garden. A clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece, counting out several minutes before Beryl came back with a tray carrying a silver teapot, milk jug, strainer, bone china crockery and crisp linen napkins. She returned almost immediately with a three-tier cake stand laden with an array of tiny sandwiches, pastries and cakes, and it was just as she was finishing laying everything out neatly that Lady Romily entered the room. Taking a seat in a chintzy cushioned armchair, she didn’t acknowledge Neil’s presence until Betty had poured out two cups of Earl Grey, then left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “Help yourself, Reverend Fisher.”

  “You first, Lady Romily. Can I pass you anything?”

  “I never eat at this time of day.”

  Neil, who had been considering loading two dainty sandwiches onto his plate, thought better of it and took just one. Balancing the plate on the occasional table beside him, he decided against reaching out for a lump of sugar for his tea, and instead sat back on the uncompromising high-backed chair he’d been shown to.

  “I have a list.”

  For the first time, Neil noticed the sheet of paper she held in her hand.

  “Oh?”

  “A list of suggestions for you.”

  “How helpful!”

  “It will be.”

  Steadying the silver spoon, which seemed to be rattling against the cup and saucer on his lap, Neil watched as Lady Romily perched gold-rimmed glasses on her nose, then lifted the paper with an air of authority.

  “Firstly, St Stephen’s is an ancient place of worship. It should be used with the highest reverence and decorum.” She raised her eyes to look intently at Neil over the rim of her glasses. “That service last Sunday was a disgrace. It must not happen again.”

  “Excuse me, Lady Romily, but that’s not the opinion of most of the–”

  “Please do not interrupt me until the list is finished. Do you understand?”

  Neil swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue, and sat back in chastened silence.

  “Point Two. Waving arms in the air during worship is common, theatrical and totally unnecessary. That must not happen agai
n within the walls of St Stephen’s.”

  In spite of his growing indignation, Neil knew from the challenge in Lady Romily’s stare as she finished her sentence that no argument would be tolerated.

  “Point Three. For centuries, St Stephen’s has been a high Anglican church following, both in word and spirit, the liturgy celebrated throughout the Anglican communion. It betrays our tradition and faith to deviate from that course in any way. Since you have been taking services at St Stephen’s, I have noticed the small changes you have been introducing here and there hoping, no doubt, that most members of the congregation are too stupid to notice. There are certainly some very stupid people associated with the church, but I am not one of them – and I represent a significant and powerful group of church members. You ignore us at your peril, Reverend Fisher. You may think you’re a new broom here to modernize the old guard in Dunbridge, but we have no need of your half-baked ideas in this parish.”

  With curiosity rather than anger, Neil watched in fascination as a vein in Lady Romily’s neck throbbed visibly with passion and mission.

  “Point Four. The Peace.” She paused dramatically to allow the subject to register. “This idea of worshippers giving each other the Sign of Peace during the Eucharist has crept in much against the wishes of many lifelong Anglicans. Now the whole ridiculous idea is being allowed to extend until people are actually walking from one corner of the church to the next, hugging strangers and getting into long conversations with them – right in the middle of the service! It is unseemly. It is intrusive to our privacy. It is irrelevant to our worship. It has to stop!”

  Neil opened his mouth to butt in, but she didn’t draw breath before going on to her next concern.

  “Point Five. You are introducing far too many of these modern choruses, which have no substance at all compared to the great traditional hymns that have served the church for centuries. These new pop songs have no place in Christian worship, and should be banned from St Stephen’s.

  “Point Six. It seems our organist, Brian, is only able to play at one tempo: fast. The majority of our most beautiful and inspirational hymns should be taken at a quiet pace, which allows us to consider the full meaning of the words. If Brian doesn’t understand that, he shouldn’t be allowed to spoil the enjoyment of others. Get someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

  Neil stiffened with frustration. Was he imagining the almost manic gleam in her eye as she read?

  “Point Seven. Children. If they are to be in church, they must be seen and not heard. Parents are so lax on discipline these days. There’s no control, no consideration for those who wish to come to church for quiet contemplation. Children should be excluded at all times but one – during the Family Service at which children are encouraged to attend, which you insist on holding once every four weeks.”

  At this point, she leaned a little nearer to him to look him straight in the face. “And now, a few points that relate to you personally, Reverend Fisher. Firstly, I was shocked and dismayed to see that you were wearing trainers under your cassock last week. Black shoes, clean, well-heeled and polished, are the only possible footwear at all times! I am sure they taught you that at theological college, and if they didn’t, their standards are slipping. Yours must not, do you understand? And one last thing – show me your finger nails!”

  Too surprised to refuse, Neil laid his hands out flat while she scrutinized each one of his nails.

  “They are very short.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “Do you bite them?”

  “I do not.”

  “Then why are they so short?”

  “Because they really don’t grow much. They never have.”

  Studying his hands closely to check for signs that he was being less than truthful, she finally released her grasp and sat back with an air of finality.

  Suddenly furious at her cold-hearted dissection of the style and ministry of the church he loved, he breathed in deeply before letting rip.

  “Lady Romily, you have made your views and preferences very clear, and I have listened patiently to them all. Now you must listen to me, because, as you didn’t include Margaret in your invitation here this afternoon, I represent the ministerial team of St Stephen’s.

  “The style of worship at our church reflects the mix of tastes, age groups and experience of all those who form our congregation. While traditional hymns and wording appeal to many, there is a new generation that wants a more relaxed, spontaneous and modern form of worship. We are committed to bringing the word of God to them, just as we are to you and any others who prefer a more conservative approach. That’s why we vary our worship style from week to week throughout each month. Christ came – and died – for us all. In his name, our church must welcome everyone. That is our role!”

  This time, it was Lady Romily who was staring at him wordlessly.

  “I don’t think God minds if I wear black shoes or red carpet slippers. I think he cares most that I do his will faithfully, and bring others to knowledge of him through my ministry. I believe that Christ welcomes us all with loving, open arms. I fail to see either a loving spirit or an open mind in your views when you dismiss the choices and feelings of your fellow worshippers in the most high-handed manner!”

  There, he’d said it! His raised voice faded away to leave a deafening silence resounding around the elegant room. Suddenly fearful that he had completely overstepped the mark, he was surprised to see the twitch of a smile at the corner of Lady Romily’s lips.

  “Well, well, well,” she mused, sitting back comfortably in her armchair. “I never put you down as a man with backbone, Neil, and now I see you have some fight in you after all. Thank God for that!”

  “Lady Romily, I–”

  She hushed him with a wave of her hand. “You will need that backbone, Neil, if you are to make your mark on this church. Of course things must change with the times, but I urge you not to throw the baby out with the bath water. Take your time. Change is dangerous unless it is well considered. Be careful when you are thinking about taking a sledgehammer to traditions that have lasted for centuries. And Neil, if you had remained silent long enough for me to finish, you would have allowed me to say how wonderful I thought the Evensong was the other night. Margaret told me that the idea of using the age-old words of the Book of Common Prayer came from you, and I wish you to know that was an inspired and very wise decision. Did you notice how full the church was?”

  “We had more than two hundred there that evening.”

  “Why do you think it worked so well?”

  “Because those words are embedded in the mind and experience of most of us.”

  “You’re right. It was immensely moving, almost sentimental in its familiarity.”

  “We can’t always have services like that, though.”

  “Of course not. I realize the church has to cater for all comers – but please be fully aware of the reason for the success of that Evensong. For most of us, faith is rooted in our past, with its familiarity and sense of homecoming in the words we have heard and spoken all our lives. That’s why it worked.”

  He was still mulling over her words when she suddenly stood up, the conversation plainly over.

  “Food for thought, Neil. Thank you for coming. Good afternoon!”

  And with a whiff of rose-scented perfume, she swept past him and left the room.

  Neil picked up his briefcase and let himself out of the front door, his mind racing at the curious lecture he’d just received. And it wasn’t until he’d driven half a mile down the road that he realized that not one dainty sandwich nor a sip of Earl Grey had got as far as his lips.

  * * *

  When Neil arrived at the church office on the day before the barn dance, he realized immediately that he had walked into an intense conversation going on between Margaret and churchwarden Cyn. Tactfully he withdrew to the church hall, where the children’s playgroup was just coming to an end. Ten minutes later Margaret joined
him.

  “Everything OK?” he asked.

  “Probably,” replied Margaret, her expression thoughtful. “Baby Ellen isn’t at all well. Cyn thinks it’s because she was born so prematurely and has a lot to catch up on.”

  “But Colin and Jeannie think it could be more than that?”

  “They waited so long for her. It was a miracle she was ever born. Who can blame them for being overprotective?”

  “What does the doctor say?”

  “Well, he’s not exactly encouraging. Jeannie noticed that one of Ellen’s eyes seemed to have a bit of a squint, and when the doctor took a look, he sent her straight off for tests.”

  “Tests?”

  “An ultrasound scan, Cyn said, and I know she’s been beside herself with worry. I don’t know what the results were, but I get a dreadful feeling the news isn’t good.”

  “Then we’ll all pray for Ellen and the whole family. Shall I add her name to our prayer list for Sunday morning?”

  “Not yet. Let’s just keep this to ourselves for now. She’ll certainly be in my prayers though.”

  “Mine too. It’s good that you know the family so well.”

  “In some ways that makes it harder. Frank and I are parents too, and we know the mere thought of anything going wrong with your children’s health is terrifying.”

  Margaret suddenly spotted a stack of cardboard boxes full of glasses in various sizes and shapes.

  “Good, they’re here! I was worried those wouldn’t be delivered in time for tomorrow night. How are the tickets going?”

  “Looks like we’re going to have a full house! It’s handy that the committee chairman of the Friends of St Stephen’s just happens to be a farmer with a barn that’s perfect for our dance. I popped over to Hill Farm earlier this morning, and Bob was there lining the sides of the barn with straw bales. It feels quite cosy now, in spite of its size. The school’s come up with some staging and lights we can borrow – and that’s it really, because the caller will do the rest. It’s just him and his sound set-up, and we’ll be do-si-do-ing like cowboys!”