by Pam Rhodes
“Illness, accidents and tragedy are facts of human life, Jeannie. There are so many things that just happen, and we can’t stop them. I don’t think that makes them God’s doing. They’re just part of the life we’ve created over centuries in this world we share. Selfishness, lethargy, greed – they’ve prompted people’s actions since life began, because God gave us the free will to do just that.”
“I’m not selfish! And there couldn’t possibly be anyone more innocent than Ellen!”
“But our world’s been shaped and influenced by the actions and reactions of others down the years. The way we live, what we eat, how we relate to others – that’s created a modern-day malaise in which conditions like cancer seem to flourish. Is that God’s fault, or, collectively, is it ours? I don’t think God wants even one second of pain or suffering for any of us. After all, his own son faced the ultimate in human suffering, so he does understand exactly what you’re going through and he is in this with you, Jeannie. Whatever the outcome, please keep that knowledge in your heart.”
“It’s not easy.”
“No, of course not. Bless you, Jeannie. God bless you all.”
And against a backdrop of laughing, thigh-slapping dancers, the two of them sat in their own circle of shared sadness.
Much later during the evening, after the fish and chip supper, the raffle, and eventually the news that the barn dance had raised nearly £1,000 for the Friends of St Stephen’s Fund, Neil was hardly listening as the caller announced that the next dance was a Ladies’ Excuse Me.
“Grab your partner, girls! Don’t take no for an answer!”
It wasn’t until Neil looked up to see Wendy making a determined line towards him that the significance of that invitation got through to him.
“Well, cowboy?” she challenged as she stopped in front of him, her hand on one hip to allow the best possible view of her costume as an extremely glamorous saloon girl. “You dancing?”
“You’re asking?” gulped Neil.
“I’m asking!” was the firm reply as she grabbed his hand to pull him to his feet.
Then I suppose I must be dancing, he thought in a panic, suddenly aware that many pairs of eyes seemed to be focused in his direction.
This dance was slower than most of the previous ones, and instead of constantly changing partners, the caller explained that in “The Lovers’ Stroll” you stayed with the partner of your dreams. Acutely aware of his lack of dancing skills, Neil allowed himself to be guided by Wendy, who drifted round and past him, floating in and out of his arms in a fragrant cloud of swirling fabric. One moment she would be dancing apart from him, her eyes flashing and seductive, and the next, she was up close, with her lips almost touching his. The feeling of her in his embrace brought back a host of exciting and evocative memories. She was so beautiful, so hard to resist…
As the music drifted to an end, Wendy twirled around beneath his outstretched arm, fixing her eyes on him as she gracefully dropped into a curtsey. Then, before he could draw breath, she turned on her heel and walked away without a backward glance. Her point was made – and they both knew it.
“Need a shandy?” whispered a voice in his ear.
Claire was beside him, watching as Wendy walked away. Grateful for her company, Neil still felt decidedly weak at the knees after the experience he’d just been through.
“You’re not over her, are you? And she’s definitely not over you.”
“I thought I was. I knew I couldn’t lead her on when I simply wasn’t sure enough of what I felt for her.”
His eyes still on Wendy as she disappeared into the crowd on the other side of the hall, Neil leaned towards Claire so that their shoulders touched.
“And there was you. Why did I find myself feeling so much for you if it was Wendy I wanted?”
With the slightest of motions, Claire’s fingers brushed against his own.
“I think…” Her voice was so soft that he could hardly hear her. “I think Wendy’s right for you in many important ways. You’ve got a lot in common. She’s bright and gregarious, and she’s grown up in the church, with the same faith that’s at the very heart of you.”
He turned towards Claire.
“Yes, she would be the perfect life partner for a vicar, and I know that’s my vocation and calling rather than just a job. But as a man – the rather feeble, uncertain person I know I am inside – there’s something about her confidence that she knows exactly what’s best for me that I find rather overwhelming.”
“A bit like your mum?”
He chuckled. “Exactly like my mum! That’s probably my problem.”
Claire’s fingers tightened gently around his own.
“Neil, there’s nothing wrong with you exactly as you are. Life isn’t certain. No one knows all the answers, so no one has the right to decide what you need. You have the kindest heart I’ve ever come across. Trust it. Trust in you. I do.”
In the depths of her green eyes, Neil glimpsed the same warm understanding and genuine care that had swept them both away on the night of Harry’s illness.
It was Claire who broke the moment.
“I’ve seen what they do in Wild West movies to barmen who desert their thirsty customers. Come on, I’ll make us both another shandy. I think we deserve it!”
CHAPTER 6
November roared in with dark nights, high winds, whipping rain – and Iris. His mother arrived with two full suitcases plus copious other bags, which Neil obediently dragged across Paddington Station towards the car. Once at the house, she grumbled about the heating, said the place needed dusting, muttered about the state of all the cupboards and commandeered his favourite armchair. The tirade of criticism continued as they ate the casserole he’d prepared, as per her instructions, before leaving. It was bland. He’d used the wrong meat. He should never have added garlic – and how could he ever think a decent casserole could be made without butter beans, which had always been her personal favourite? It was when she said that during her stay she would obviously have to take personal charge of all culinary requirements in the house that the non-cook in Neil breathed a sigh of relief and thought that perhaps every dark cloud did have a silver lining.
“Harry’s invited you for tea tomorrow, if you’d like to go.”
Iris’s expression brightened. “How charming. Of course I’d love to take tea with such a delightful gentleman. What time are we expected?”
“Only you, I’m afraid. I’m at a planning meeting tomorrow afternoon for the Remembrance service at the weekend. The British Legion always organizes a special gathering, but this will be the first time I’ve led the service, so I’m anxious to get everything right.”
“Harry will go to that, surely?”
“I expect so. I haven’t asked him.”
“Then I shall. We’ll go together.”
“And I’m out first thing in the morning at the local church school, so I’ll have to leave you to your own devices then, if that’s OK.”
“I’m used to being on my own, Neil, since your father died. Being alone is a way of life for me. How on earth do you think I manage at home?”
“It’s different when you’re in someone else’s house, though, isn’t it? I hope you can find everything you need.”
Iris sniffed delicately.
“I doubt that very much. I think I need to do a bit of stock-taking in this house of yours and sort it out once and for all.”
“Mum, please don’t. I like it just as it is…”
“Neil, you always were badly organized. Heaven only knows what you ever learned in all those years in the cubs and scouts, because you’ve never been properly prepared for anything!”
“Look, you came here for a rest. Please have one. I really don’t want you rearranging anything here. This is my home, my home!”
Her eyes widened with disbelief at his outburst.
“There’s no need to take that tone, Neil, when I’m simply offering help you plainly need. That’s one thing you�
��ve never understood – that if you don’t take good advice when it’s offered to you, then you can blame no one but yourself when things fall around your ears.”
She stood up abruptly.
“I’m going to have a bath. The heating is on in the bathroom, I take it?”
Neil nodded wearily.
“And the water’s hot? Then I’ll bid you goodnight, Neil. I prefer my own company to yours – and the book I’m reading will be a great deal more interesting.”
And as she swept upstairs in a haze of her favourite Lily of the Valley perfume, Neil watched her go before burying his head in his hands with a heavy sigh of sheer exasperation.
* * *
If Neil found a congregation of adults daunting, that was nothing to the fear he felt when faced with an audience of junior-school children. He went in to talk to two different classes during his monthly visit to the local church school, and on the whole he found the younger pupils in the infants’ class much easier to cope with. They listened as if he were a wonderful storyteller, generally not questioning the logic or truth of anything he told them. It was when he got to the older pupils aged eight and nine that he began to find the whole experience quite a challenge.
That week, he decided to take Remembrance as his theme. He explained that there had been two world wars, which had torn Europe apart and probably involved and maybe even cost the lives of many of their great-grandads. He told them how, during the Great War, so many thousands had been killed that everyone said that was the war to end all wars. And yet just over twenty years later, there was another even more devastating war which had claimed the lives of millions, and touched almost every family from here in Dunbridge to right over on the other side of the world. He added that it was important never to forget the lessons learned in war, so that we could all make sure nothing like that ever happened again. Then he finished by explaining the significance of the services on Remembrance Sunday when people could pray and remember those whose lives had been lost in war.
The reaction of the class ranged from the shocked and interested to the downright bored, but they all perked up when he took round a box of bright red poppies with detailed instructions about how they could pin them onto their school sweatshirts without stabbing themselves or each other.
“Does anyone know why we remember people who have died in war with poppies?” he asked.
One hand went up. It was David, a ginger-haired boy who always seemed anxious to answer any question he was asked, even if he had no idea of the answer.
“Because they’re red?” he suggested hopefully.
“What’s the significance of them being red?” asked Neil.
David’s arm shot up again.
“Because you can see them when you pin them on yourself?”
“Yes, I suppose so, but what about the colour? What can you think of that’s red?”
“Ketchup?”
“Yes, you’re right, but that’s not what I’m after,” continued Neil, wondering if he was fighting a lost cause here. “Think about war. Think about men dying in the trenches when they’ve been shot at or bombed.”
“I don’t like to think about things like that.” Sitting near the front, Janice’s eyes looked enormous in her pale face framed with a thatch of dark curls. “I don’t like war films and I don’t like the games my brother has on his Play Station either. They’re always about fighting and killing, and there’s lots of blood and gore. I hate them! And I hate him for making me watch them.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Janice, and I think that’s a very sensible way to feel – but you’ve hit on the reason for a red flower to help us remember. Blood is red, isn’t it? So the red flowers remind us of the blood that was shed when the soldiers died.”
“Euck!” said Janice. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“But,” Neil persevered, “why poppies? Why not roses or tulips? Because they’re red flowers too.”
“Sir! Sir!” David’s hand was waving above his head again. “Because that’s the sound the guns made: pop, pop, pop, pop, pop!”
“Good idea, David, but not quite right. The idea of using poppies dates back to the First World War a hundred years ago now. As the soldiers were fighting in the trenches, they could see great big patches of poppies growing wild over the ground between where they were and the other side where the enemy were hidden in their own trenches. Because the poppies were the colour of drops of blood, they became the symbol of remembrance for people everywhere who have sacrificed their lives in service of their country.”
The class fell silent as they considered this. Suddenly David’s hand shot up again.
“You’re a vicar. You believe in God, don’t you, sir?”
“Very much, David.”
“I don’t. If there’s a God, things like that wouldn’t happen.”
“But was it God’s fault or was it the fault of people – like the leaders of the countries who decided to go to war in the first place? Was it God who invented guns and bombs? Was it God who wanted one group of people to hate another to the point where they were prepared to kill their enemies? Don’t you think we need to take responsibility for our part in all this? Because I think God’s heart is broken when we behave that way.”
“I still don’t believe in God,” retorted David.
“Does anyone know the word that describes someone who doesn’t believe in God?” asked Neil, thinking that a change of subject might be helpful. He was faced with a sea of blank faces, even from David, who was plainly struggling to come up with some sort of answer.
“It begins with the letter ‘A’,” hinted Neil.
“I know! I know, sir!” David was almost jumping off his chair in his enthusiasm. “Is it an arsonist, sir?”
Neil had to smile. “Not quite, David, but that’s a good try because the word you need sounds a bit like that. It’s atheist – and it means someone who doesn’t believe in God. Has anyone heard of that word?”
“I have, sir! I have! That was the word I meant!”
“OK, well, here’s another question for you. There’s another word that also begins with the letter ‘A’ that is used to describe someone who isn’t sure whether they believe in God or not.”
Again, a row of blank expressions stared back at him for several seconds before David practically leapt to his feet in his determination to answer first.
“I’ve got it, sir. I’ve got it!”
“Right, David, what is the word to describe someone who doesn’t know if they believe in God or not?”
“An Anglican, sir?”
I give up, thought Neil. I just give up.
* * *
On the whole, with a year and a quarter now under his belt since he first came to Dunbridge, Neil was beginning to feel a great deal more comfortable with the cross section of people who made up the busy life of St Stephen’s. There was, however, one group who struck him as so formidable that he literally felt his knees knock when one of them approached him. He’d already had his audience with Lady Romily, Chairwoman of the St Stephen’s Ladies’ Guild, but she was supported by a clique of equally daunting ladies: Olivia, Penelope and Julia, who were Deputy Chair, Secretary and Treasurer respectively.
Margaret had impressed upon him from the start that it was important to keep on the right side of the Guild committee because, as a group, their main responsibility was to raise money for the curate’s expenses. That always made him feel awkwardly beholden, especially as it soon became clear that they expected him to sing for his supper! He was regularly summoned to their afternoon meeting, held on the third Thursday of each month, where he found himself grilled by the Treasurer, made to sign a variety of paperwork by the Secretary, measured up for socks and pullovers by the knitting team, stuffed with sandwiches by the catering ladies (led by the talented Beryl who, everyone said, should go in for Masterchef) and generally bossed about and fussed over by this group of grandmothers. They plainly thought he’d not had a square meal for we
eks, definitely needed some style advice when it came to his choice of clothes, and could certainly do with a bit of matchmaking to find him the perfect wife to sort him out.
Meekly following orders, Neil found himself holding up his hands so that a skein of wool could be hung around them while one bespectacled knitter, working at terrific speed, wound neat balls of wool from it. As the skein of wool disappeared, he tried to keep count of just how many times they dropped Wendy’s name into the conversation. He’d got the message. The Ladies’ Guild thought Wendy was the girl for him: accomplished, beautiful, a leading light in the church community, brought up in a well-respected Christian family – she fitted the bill perfectly! Neil could feel his face getting redder by the minute as they bombarded him with questions about why he and Wendy had broken up and what he planned to do to make matters right. Just when he thought he could dodge their questions no more, Lady Romily unexpectedly stepped in to rescue him.
“Ladies!” she announced in a voice that could cut through all conversation and probably panes of glass too. “As you know, our Annual Baking Competition will be taking place in the church hall next Saturday. Entries are invited not just from members of the Ladies’ Guild, but from anyone who feels they would like to try their hand at whipping up something special. There will, of course, be the usual fierce battle to produce the best classic Victoria sponge. The Rich Fruit Cake category is also very popular, and may I remind you that those two categories stand alone in that there is a separate winner for each of them? However, the most coveted prize is for the Best in Show, and for that there is no limit whatsoever to the kind of baking masterpiece you might choose to enter.”
There was a hubbub of conversation as this information was noted and commented upon by just about every lady in the Guild.
“We do, of course,” continued Lady Romily, raising her voice to ensure absolute attention, “need an independent judge. I have been giving this role some careful consideration, and I have a suggestion to put to you. I have noticed that our young curate, the Reverend Fisher, not only has a very sweet tooth, but over the year or more that he’s been joining us at our meetings, I feel he’s developed an eye for knowing a good cake when he sees one. What do you think, ladies? Could he be our judge?”
